


my kind's your kind

by liketheroad



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:41:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketheroad/pseuds/liketheroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“This isn’t something we do, Eames.  It’s something we are.”</i> Magical realism, soulbonding, d/s fusion.<br/>warning: So, like, for real.  It’s a d/s relationship, but it’s also soulbonding, so like DUB CON.  Borderline kidnapping.  Watch out for that.  *hands*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the suffering years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He may not Arthur’s sub, but he is still Arthur’s._ The story of how Dom and Arthur found each other before the events of my kind's your kind.

When he hears about the experiments being performed in Paris, about the brilliant minds of Professor Rupert Miles and his young protege, Arthur knows it’s too good to be true.

He has his ear to the ground well enough, still, especially in military corners, to know that all other experiments relating to dream-sharing have been woefully unsuccessful.

He decides to go to Paris and find out what makes Miles and Cobb different.

\---

He secures an apartment in Paris, not sure why he imagines he’ll be staying so long, but there’s expectation in the air, as soon as he steps off the plane, and Arthur is used to trusting his instincts.

He spends a week getting acclimatized, relearning the city. He hasn’t been back since the war.

It’s very different, now.

He appreciates Paris on an abstract level, but he doesn’t really enjoy it. It’s not as maudlin as it sounds, but Arthur doesn’t really _enjoy_ anything. He surrounds himself with beauty despite this, hoping, distantly, that something will eventually be beautiful enough.

\---

Dominic Cobb is as close to enough as anything has ever come.

Arthur makes an appointment with the Professor, bracing himself for a long intellectual discussion and weeks of building Miles’ trust before he can force the opportunity to actually test the new equipment Miles is allegedly developing.

He expects this, but when he arrives in Miles’ office, what he finds is a slip of a boy, golden hair, impossibly fine, high cheekbones. Arthur is overloaded with sensation the instant he walks into the room. The instant this boy, who he assumes must be Dom, becomes aware of him, every part of Arthur snaps to attention.

When he forces himself to meet Dom’s eyes, Arthur almost gasps.

Dom is staring at him so hungrily it sears Arthur to the bone.

They stand like that, locked in a trance on opposite sides of Miles’ desk, until Dom finally, somehow, manages to snap himself out of it enough to ask, voice rough with the desire to please,

“Can I help you with something?”

Arthur, who has dedicated most of the years of his long life to practicing utter control, let’s a wild smile cross his face, and then he nods.

“I’m sure you can.”

\---

He _does_ talk to Miles. They talk for hours, in fact. Even though Arthur already has what he came for, even though he already knows how and why the experiments work.

He stays, though, allows the conversation to continue, because the whole time they talk, Dom sits perched at the edge of one of the classroom desks, watching Arthur, a hand cupping his chin.

Dom watches him like Arthur is a riddle Dom is desperate to figure out.

Arthur wishes Dom luck, in that respect, and wonders what he’s revealing, simply by how long he stays, by the things he says to Miles.

Eventually, he has to leave, Miles has classes and Arthur has more important plans to put in motion, now that he’s found Dom.

He idles just outside the college, waiting.

Dom doesn’t keep him waiting long.

He flings himself through the doors, arms windmilling, breath ragged from his chase, and he trips and almost crashes to the ground.

Arthur is there to catch him.

Still in his arms, Dom turns his lovely face to beam up at Arthur as he breathes, “You waited.”

Arthur runs his finger along the ridge of Dom’s cheek, and nods.

“You wanted me to.”

\---

They go back to Arthur’s apartment. Dom is wide-eyed, chewing on his bottom lip, swaying in and out of Arthur’s personal space, like he’s fighting to stop himself from giving up the effort entirely and simply clinging to Arthur’s side.

Arthur can appreciate the sentiment.

Still, he makes Dom sit down on one of the foldout chairs he’s set up in his otherwise barren apartment. He knows Dom probably wants to follow him into the kitchen, but he makes Dom stay in the living room while Arthur fixes them drinks, food.

“You are old enough to drink, aren’t you?” Arthur inquires, smirking slightly.

Dom laughs, ducking his head. Arthur wonders if it’s an affectation, all Dom’s bright-eyed innocence. He can detect something darker, at least, behind the eyes.

“I can hold my own,” Dom promises.

Arthur has no doubt.

“Tell me about yourself,” he instructs quietly.

Dom looks like he’d rather Arthur do the talking, but he does as Arthur says.

No surprise there.

What Arthur learns isn’t surprising, either, but it is enough to make his jaw clench and his hands twitch to reach for his gun, and then methodically hunt down everyone who has ever touched Dom, who has ever crossed his path.

Of Dom’s nature, there can be no doubt. He’s the strongest sub Arthur has ever encountered, his eagerness to please bordering on a mindless desperation.

He’s been alone far too long.

But then, so has Arthur.

He learns that Dom’s parents are dead. That his father was an alcoholic and his mother was probably manic depressive, and that Dom stayed with her, alone, just the two of them in a rat-infested apartment, trying fruitlessly to make her happy, until she died.

“It worked, sometimes,” Dom murmurs, lost in the memory of his mother, of his younger self. “But where was only so much I could do.” His whole self droops as he says this, and Arthur understands.

There is no greater failing for a sub than an inability to give someone what they need.

Arthur touches Dom’s knee, partly to comfort, partly a gentle prompt for Dom to continue.

He smiles at Arthur radiantly, and does.

After his mother died, Dom allowed himself to be passed from person to person, letting them use him up, toss him away.

“I’ve never been enough,” he admits, sounding ashamed. “No matter how hard I try there’s always something missing, something I can’t give them.”

Arthur touches him again, letting his hand stay on Dom’s knee, this time.

“Do you know what you are?” Arthur asks gently.

Dom shakes his head.

“You’re what’s called a sub, but it’s not what the word usually means. It’s much more than that. You’re different, special.”

Dom looks at him, wide-eyed and beseeching.

“Can you make it go away?”

Arthur shakes his head, truly sorry, and he says, “No. But I can lessen the pain, a little.”

“How?” Dom asks, hopeful, trusting.

Too trusting, after the life he’s had. But Arthur understands. If Dom didn’t have hope, he’d have gone mad.

Arthur squeezes his knee, and smiles.

“You need to be needed. And I need a lot.”

Dom leans into Arthur’s side, and Arthur can feel his smile, pressed tight against Arthur’s chest.

\---

Dom stays the night, sleeping peacefully at Arthur’s side.

When Arthur wakes, Dom is gone, but not gone far.

He’s in the kitchen, and Arthur is led out by his nose, the smells are tantalizing.

“I didn’t even know I had eggs,” Arthur says, making Dom jump.

“Sorry,” he apologizes immediately.

“For what?” Arthur asks calmly.

Dom shrugs.

“Some people don’t like it.”

Arthur furrows his brow. “Eggs?”

Dom laughs, a little ragged around the edges.

“Me. How I am.” He shrugs. “I try too hard.”

Arthur shakes his head, crossing the room, touching Dom’s face with both hands.

“I like it,” he promises.

Dom smiles like Arthur is the best thing that has ever happened to him.

Arthur knows the feeling.

\---

Dom moves into Arthur’s apartment.

Having Dom there forces Arthur to make an actual effort with the space.

They decorate together, spending whole days idling in flea markets and antique furniture stores, going to auctions and commissioning matching linens for the bedroom and curtains for the living area.

Dom had been living in Miles’ spare room, before, and they move what few possessions he has out of there and into Arthur’s.

“I reminded him of Mal, his daughter,” Dom volunteers when Arthur asks him about how he came to be living and studying with Miles.

“How so?”

“She ran away. Sometimes she comes back, but mostly she’s gone, and he worries for her, misses her. When he found me,” Dom smiles sheepishly, “I was digging through his trash in the back alley, and she had just left, again, and he couldn’t... he couldn’t turn me away.”

“Especially not after you made yourself so useful, to him,” Arthur adds knowingly, letting the smile on his face show that he doesn’t disapprove, immediately relaxing away the onset of tension from Dom’s features.

“I just wanted to help him,” Dom concludes, excusing himself.

Arthur nods.

“You’re good at that.”

“I’m better at helping you,” Dom says, almost slyly.

Arthur draws him in, kissing Dom’s forehead.

“Yes, you’re better.”

\---

Dom and Miles still dream.

“I can’t disappoint him, not yet,” is all Dom says on the subject.

Arthur allows it.

Miles has been good to Dom, and he’s the only reason Arthur found him.

He deserves to dream a little longer, to believe, for that alone.

\---

They fuck, because after a few weeks Arthur can’t control his desire and Dom’s all at once.

Dom is very good at everything he does, and he is meticulous, learning every inch of Arthur’s body, determining exactly where to bite, where to kiss, where to press harder, when to go faster and when to go slow.

Arthur does the same, learning Dom, and even though he knows they weren’t really made to fit, he likes to think that they get pretty damn close.

\---

“How old are you, really?” Dom asks, his head in Arthur’s lap, Arthur’s hands in his hair.

Arthur has been thinking about this, too. About age. About Dom.

“I’m 27,” Arthur starts with the lie, and ends with the truth, “but I was born in 1915.”

“Wow,” Dom says, looking up at Arthur with ever growing devotion.

It makes Arthur’s heart ache, sometimes, to look back at him and marvel at Dom’s capacity for love, even after everything he’s experienced, even though Arthur, like everyone else, can’t quite be who he needs.

“Can I do that?” Dom wants to know, sounding less peaceful, suddenly.

Arthur realizes he must be worried about not keeping up, about letting Arthur down.

Arthur kisses him, exploiting all his knowledge of the contours of Dom’s mouth to soothe him, to remind him neither of them is going anywhere.

“You can do whatever I want.”

\---

“What would happen to me, if you found your true sub?” Dom asks, his face resting over Arthur’s stomach.

They’re naked, and it’s almost dawn. They’ve been up most of the night.

Dom was particularly wanting, that night.

Or maybe Arthur was.

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Arthur responds, hoping that will be the end of it.

It’s not, of course.

“But what if?”

He sighs, and hugs Dom closer.

“I would still take care of you, I would still keep you with me. You and I get a choice, Dom, and I choose to keep you with me always. I love you.”

Dom smiles, and from the feel of it against Arthur’s skin, he knows it’s not a happy smile.

“As much as you can,” he allows.

Arthur draws Dom’s face up to his, kisses him deeply.

“You are dear to me, Dom. Unlike anyone who has come before you. You will always be so very dear to me.”

Dom smiles, and presses his nose into Arthur’s cheek.

“I love you too. As much as I am able.”

Arthur breathes in shakily, and let’s them both pretend that it’s enough.

\---

Arthur comes home and finds Dom in the bathroom, naked.

He’s standing in front of the mirror, frowning at his reflection.

Arthur steps into the room, footsteps deliberately heavy, warning Dom of his approach.

Dom wheels around, caught, flush with embarrassment all the way down to his toes.

“I’m sorry I’m so scrawny,” he blurts, sounding faintly hysterical.

“What?” Arthur demands, alarmed and already striding across the room to pull Dom into his arms.

Dom allows it, but remains tense, stubbornly refusing to be relaxed by the embrace. There wouldn’t be any controlling it if they were actually meant to hold each other in that way. It’s an unwelcome reminder that Arthur does his best to push aside.

Dom is shaking slightly, in Arthur’s arms, and he will always do everything in his power to help Dom. He kisses him, murmuring endearments and praise, unwinding Dom bit by bit until he finally relaxes enough that Arthur is willing to loosen his hold, just a little.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, with your body,’ Arthur insists, wincing at the harshness of voice. “You’re beautiful, Dom,” he adds, softer.

Dom smiles at him sadly.

“I’m too pretty, too small.”

“For what?” Arthur asks blankly.

Dom gives him an almost pitying look, like the answer is painfully obvious.

“For you.”

\---

They have been living together for almost a year when Dom comes home in the foulest mood Arthur has ever seen him in.

He bangs around the apartment, huffing furious sighs at nothing and refusing to sit still.

Arthur eventually makes it an order, because even though Dom’s not his sub, and he could still disobey, he knows Dom won’t.

He never does.

They sit together on the bed, because Arthur knows they’ll get there eventually, and starting there just saves time.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, carding his fingers through Dom’s hair, pushing it away from his face.

“Miles. He brought a projection of his daughter into the dream with us.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Is that so odd?”

Dom shrugs, sullen. “There are always projections. But I’ve never seen one of her, before.”

“And?”

Dom looks at him, wretched. “She was so beautiful, Arthur. I wanted - I wanted her to be real.”

Ah.

He closes his eyes, composing himself, and then pulls Dom closer, into his lap. He kisses Dom’s cheeks, his mouth.

“It’s alright, Dom. I’m not angry.”

Instead of helping, this upsets Dom more, even as he goes helplessly slack under Arthur’s caress.

“I wish you were,” Dom mumbles into Arthur’s neck.

Arthur extracts Dom’s face, holding it out far enough that their eyes can meet.

“Why?”

Dom’s smile is sad. Sad, and full of longing.

“Because you would be. If I was really yours, you would be angry.”

Arthur kisses him, and doesn’t stop, because he has to do _something_ , something to make Dom know he is wanted, and kissing him, touching him, is all Arthur can do.

There’s nothing he could say that wouldn’t be a lie.

\---

Dom likes to sneak up on him.

To come at Arthur from behind, clever fingers winding themselves around Arthur, even more clever lips waking Arthur up, already shaking and hard.

Arthur knows Dom does this because he doesn’t like to look at the hesitancy in Arthur’s eyes, the reluctance Arthur knows is always there, right before they fuck, before Arthur gives in and takes what isn’t his.

Arthur always says, “You don’t have to,” hushing Dom and promising him he doesn’t have to do anything, that Arthur will let him stay, take care of him, no matter what.

But Dom doesn’t just want to be taken care of, he wants to be wanted, and in the end, Arthur always gives in.

Every time they touch, he knows he’s taking something from Dom, but he tells himself he would be wronging Dom even more severely if he didn’t.

The problem is not that Arthur needs Dom, the problem is that he doesn’t need Dom enough.

\---

Dom makes Arthur laugh, sometimes.

He’s the only one who can, and Arthur makes sure Dom knows this.

It’s not enough, but it’s the best Arthur can do.

\---

After they’ve been together for five years, Arthur thinks they’ve both finally stopped waiting for it to get better.

What they have is a gift.

Even if it’s never going to be quite enough, it’s still more than what they could have had, certainly more than either of them had before they found each other, and Arthur is so deeply, desperately grateful that they did.

It’s important to think of it that way, to remind himself to be grateful, even though Arthur is wanting in his nature, even though he lives life perpetually unsatisfied.

He hopes Dom can look at it the same way, that Dom can be grateful too, or better yet, that he can be proud, because for all that Dom can’t give him, he has given Arthur so much more than he ever hoped for, and he wishes Dom could believe that that was enough. At the very least, he hopes that Dom can forgive himself for what isn’t his fault, what isn’t a failing at all.

He may not Arthur’s sub, but he is still Arthur’s.


	2. Chapter 2

“No, Mal,” Eames says, laughing and batting her away. “No.”

She just licks his neck, nipping playfully, and says, “But look at him, he’s _perfect_.”

He sighs, curling an arm around her bare shoulders, nosing her hair indulgently, before he says, “That’s the problem.”

It’s only later that he’ll realize exactly how right he was.

\---

They never have any money, so they always go to the same shitty pub because the bartenders give Mal all her drinks for free, even though they know she shares with Eames.

Sometimes Mal goes on her own, too, but Eames doesn’t like to think too hard about what happens, those times. Mal is a big girl, she’s allowed to make her own choices.

Hell, Eames rarely objects when Mal tries to make _his_ choices for him, as well as her own.

This can, occasionally, be a problem however. Typically when Eames doesn’t think he can actually do the things Mal has decided for him.

Specifically, Mal has been trying to get Eames to sleep with the Fashionable Male for over three weeks, now. He comes in once a week, Friday nights to have a glass of what Eames assumes is something expensive and classy, and then he leaves. He wears perfectly tailored suits and ridiculously nice shoes and ties. And he wears them to the shittiest pub in the city. He never comes in with anyone, or goes home with anyone, and despite Mal’s frequent efforts to get Eames to buy him a drink, he’s clearly miles out of Eames’ league, and so Eames hasn’t actually thought much of it until now.

That is, until the FM shows up with Dom Cobb on his arm, and that’s when things start to make a lot more sense.

\---

“You want me to seduce the Fashionable Male, thus stealing him away from Dom so you can have Dom for yourself. Is that about right?”

Mal smiles. “That’s right.”

“What on earth makes you think _any_ part of that plan is a good one? I mean honestly, darling, this is a little thin, even for you.”

Mal pats his hand consolingly. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it work. We both know how you thrive on improvisation.”

\---

Mal knows Dom, of course. Not like she and Eames know the Fashionable Male, making up a private, fictional history for him and frequently discussing his hypothetical likes and dislikes when they’re bored or drunk or both.

No, not like that. She actually knows him. Well, almost.

Dom works with her father. He’s Miles’ new prodigy, in fact. He’s a bit young for her, perhaps, by the looks of him, he can’t be more than 19, but he’s brilliant, apparently, and that’s all that’s ever mattered, with Mal. He’s brilliant, and he works with her father, whom Mal is currently speaking to, at least in fits and starts, so she’s been in the same room with Dom and made eye contact, and, from what she’s told Eames, Mal has said “bonjour” to Dom at least twice.

So she knows him pretty well, obviously.

Which is why she gets up on her chair and shouts, “Dom! Salut, Dominic!” soon after he and the Fashionable Male arrive.

Dom looks startled, and the Fashionable Male snaps to attention, placing himself protectively in front of Dom with a brisk efficiency Eames recognizes instantly. He saw a lot of it, growing up.

Military, bloody perfect.

Once Dom makes Mal out through the daze of smoke and the crowd, however, he smiles, and waves.

FM still looks skeptical, but Dom murmurs something into his ear, and then he actually smiles, just a little.

Eames doesn’t think it’s fair that someone should look so lovely when they smile if they’re going to smile as infrequently as the Fashionable Male does.

But then, life is full of disappointments.

Dom and his impeccably dressed escort arrive at their table, and Mal leans forward, pretending to be more drunk than she is, and after a second, Dom obliges her with a light kiss on her cheek.

“Sit, sit!” she shouts, and amazingly, they do.

There are introductions. The Fashionable Male is actually called Arthur, and after grudgingly offering his name, he doesn’t say much else.

Mal draws Dom effortlessly into her web, and Eames watches Dom watch her, ensnared by her laughter, her rapid, musical speech, half-English, half-French. He notices that Dom keeps up better than most, laughing at the right places, making her laugh, too. Her real laugh, not the flirty, disingenuous one she uses so much of the time with people who aren’t Eames.

Eames doesn’t try to join in their conversation. Mal isn’t making room for anyone else but the two of them, but Eames doesn’t mind. He’s still not at all sure this is going to work, but Mal wants it, so that means Eames does, too.

He stops watching them and takes a stab at watching Arthur instead, and is surprised to see that Arthur’s shoulders are relaxed, that he’s holding his glass casually in his hands, seemingly unconcerned about the dance Mal and Dom are engaged in.

Eames raises an eyebrow.

“Not the jealous type, I take it?” quietly enough for only Arthur to hear. No sense beating around the bush, but no sense upsetting Mal’s efforts too early, either.

Arthur just smiles, not so sweetly, not like the one he had for Dom. He holds up a finger to Eames, like he’s about to show Eames something incredible, and then he clears his throat.

Dom’s attention shifts in an instant, his head snapping violently away from Mal, eyes fixed on Arthur, waiting, leaning closer to him.

Arthur smiles again, softer this time, and touches Dom’s jaw, just lightly, with his index finger.

Dom makes a low noise, and leans into it with a stunning lack of discretion or control. Arthur rewards him by cupping Dom’s whole face, bringing him up for a quick, claiming kiss.

A second later, it’s over. Dom has been silently dismissed, and he returns to his conversation with Mal like nothing happened.

Eames has never seen anything like it.

He swallows, heart beating far too fast, and says, “No need to be, I see.”

Arthur shrugs, and Eames accepts that as the only answer he’s going to get.

\---

Arthur and Dom stay for one drink, and then Arthur taps Dom on the wrist, just once, and Dom immediately starts making apologies, telling Mal they have to go, it was lovely talking with her, he hopes he’ll see her soon. He sounds utterly genuine, but he says it all in a babbling rush, like he doesn’t have time for all the things he actually wants to say, and, subsequently, tries to say them all at once.

Eames watches the way Arthur stands at attention behind Dom as he trips all over his words, watches Mal’s smile, half charmed by the display, half disappointed he’s leaving. He watches Dom’s hands, which keep flexing outwards, like he wants to touch her, but can’t.

It’s all very _interesting_ and not at all like Eames imagined having a drink with Dom and or the Fashionable Male ever would be, when he bothered to entertain the possibility that such a thing would happen at all.

All in all, it’s a far better night than he’d been expecting when it started, and when Arthur spares him a brief and yet somehow searing look, sending Eames’ heart racing again, just before he and Dom step out of the pub, Eames is finally forced to admit that Mal might be onto something.

\---

They sleep in the same bed, that night, because they almost always do, unless one of them brings someone home. Sometimes even then.

Mal’s room is always a massive disaster, orchestrated chaos compensating for a childhood raised in her mother’s perfectly ordered, ruthlessly tasteful home. Half of the time, she can’t even find her bed underneath all the miscellanea piled there, so they tend to take Eames’. Eames’ room is always impeccably tidy, because the military standard corners on his blankets and spartan furnishings remind him of home while also reminding him, whenever he feels like messing something up, that he’s actually not.

Mal talks and talks until she falls asleep, and sometimes she keeps talking while she dreams, but, as it has been since the very first time she slept over at his house when they were children, Mal’s voice relaxes him. Her voice is the best thing, usually the only thing, Eames can fall asleep to.

\---

They’re out of food, the next morning, so they go out.

Mal is exhausted; she slept fitfully, her excitement from the evening’s events waking her up over and over. Eames is equally tired, having been woken up by Mal each and every time to discuss things further.

They make it to the cafe at the corner of their street by leaning against each other as they walk, wearing huge sunglasses and last night’s clothes. Mal has found a sunhat somewhere, and Eames has pulled a Greek fisherman’s cap down over his face. It’s too bright and early to be awake, but there they are.

They order coffee, and tea, respectively, and Mal puts her feet in his lap as they wait for their breakfast to arrive.

“You see how he’s already in love with me?” she boasts, grinning up at him, her face tilted against the sun.

Eames chuckles and strokes her ankle with his fingertips. “I saw that when Arthur says jump, Dom is gagging to ask how high, darling. Do you really not foresee that being a problem?”

Mal pouts, waving a hand dismissively. “Dom could not love Arthur. He’s meant for me.”

Eames raises a skeptical eyebrow, but keeps his voice gentle, knowing she is serious, at least about how she feels for Dom, when he says, “I’m not sure anyone’s explained that to him, yet. Is all I’m saying, dearest.”

Mal smiles, all serenity and confidence, and says, “I will be the one to teach him what it really means to be a lover. Arthur cannot show Dom what he cannot be.”

“And _this_ is the person you want me to try and seduce? Quite cold, leaving me with such a man,” Eames demurs, feigning hurt.

Mal leans across the table, and pats Eames consolingly on the head. He allows it because he loves her.

“Don’t look so sad, my sweet. Arthur cannot love Dom, that doesn’t mean he cannot love you.”

Eames laughs, not because what she is saying is absurd, although it is, but because she means it, believes it, all the same.

\---

Mal believes in love at first sight and soulmates and being half of a whole. She also believes in unicorns with a conviction that is startlingly in a woman of 23, and so Eames has always tended to take her romantic side with a grain of salt.

That is, until she first told him about Dom.

Mal talks about Dom like some people talk about religion, like the thing that saved them from a life without hope or meaning. When she talks about him, her face lights up, her hands flutter, she can’t stop smiling. He’s seen her fall in love with many things, art and food and places and even people, but he’s never seen her love anything the way she loves Dom.

And Eames has known Mal since they were children; she’s been his best friend since they were young enough to make blood pacts on the subject.

When she was 14 and wanted to run away and have adventures, Eames didn’t even think about not going with her. When she was 19, and they were tired and poor and frequently hungry, singing on the street, busking and stealing for their food, and Mal said she wanted to go home, Eames agreed to that too.

He goes along with Mal, because she’s his best and only friend, because they’ve known and loved each other too long to do anything but be together, to be whatever the other one needs them to be.

But now they’re 23 and Mal wants Eames to be the thing that can steal Arthur away, wants him to free Dom for her, and Eames has no idea how to be that. He’s been a great many things, already, but he doesn’t know if any of them have prepared him to be enough for someone like Arthur.

\---

They go to the pub again two nights later. Mal wants to go back before that, but Eames doesn’t let her. They have to work, for one thing. Mal works in a bookstore, now, and Eames is a security guard for a very nondescript office building. It’s all very boring and terrible, but they have enough money to eat and live in a flat that isn’t likely to have rats, so Eames is willing to reevaluate the merits of boring, these days.

After two nights, though, Mal has had enough, and Eames knows she’ll go to the pub with or without him. All things considered, he’d prefer to be there when, or if, but probably when, Dom eventually breaks her heart. Probably at Arthur’s say so.

So they go, together, and when they arrive, Dom and Arthur are already there. In fact, they’re sitting and Eames and Mal’s table, and when their eyes meet across the bar, Eames gets the distinct impression Arthur and Dom have been expecting them.

Arthur even looks a little irritated it took them so long. Something about the slightly pinched look in Arthur’s eye when he straightens the cuff of his jacket, covering his watch, delights Eames to no end.

He takes Mal’s arm, and ensures they walk as slowly as is physically possible as they cross the length of the pub to take their seats across from Arthur and Dom.

Arthur’s lips curl, just for a second, his amusement doled out like a reward. Eames’ flushes, feeling uncontrollably _proud_ and he supposes that maybe he is.

Dom asks Mal what she wants to drink, and she beams at him blatantly while he runs off to fetch it.

Arthur smiles indulgently, watching Dom too.

For a moment, Eames feels left out, absurdly so, but just as he’s thinking it, Arthur turns around to look at Eames again. The smile dissolves, but something warm remains around his eyes.

“How are you, this evening?” Arthur says, voice low and oddly formal, or, well, maybe the formality makes perfect sense, given the air of authority infused in every one of Arthur’s actions, his movements, and now even his speech.

“I’m wonderful,” Eames answers, feeling like he has no choice in the matter, his voice flowing without his say-so. At least he managed to fall back on his default of breezy and mildly flirtatious without any conscious effort.

Arthur tilts his head to the side, and then the other, and says, “How are you really?” voice flatter, almost warning, this time.

Eames drums his fingers on the table, smiling awkwardly. He doesn’t _do_ awkward, and he’s not entirely sure what’s happening.

“I’m worried about Mal,” he answers, after he’s delayed as long as he can. He didn’t plan to be that honest, but there’d been no controlling that, either.

Luckily, Mal is too distracted, waiting for Dom to return, to notice. Or care, at the very least.

Arthur nods. It takes him a very long time, but, finally, he says, “You don’t need to be.”

Eames can’t help but gape at him, just a little.

“Are you sure about that?” he asks, keeping none of the significance, the implication, out of his voice.

Arthur just nods again, supremely confident, and says, “She’s right about him, I see that now.”

Eames’ eyes widen outrageously, but he has given up trying to control such things, at this stage. “And you’re alright with that? Even though he - I mean to say, you and he--”

Before Arthur can answer, Dom returns, and Mal takes her drink from him with effusive praise while Dom ducks and blushes under her affections. He looks so young, in that moment, far younger than any of them, and Eames feels something almost protective stir in his gut, watching Dom sit between Arthur and Mal, his body listing left to right, like it can’t quite decide who he should be leaning towards.

Eventually, Arthur reaches out, but not to draw Dom in, it transpires. Instead, he takes Dom by the shoulders, squeezing down hard enough for Dom to wince, and then settles Dom against Mal.

Dom looks at Arthur inquiringly, his eyes large, confused, but all it takes is a slight nod from Arthur for Dom to give in to it, relaxing against Mal. Neither Dom nor Arthur protest when she reaches around, wrapping one of her slim arms around his shoulders, tucking him in closer against her breast.

In fact, Arthur smiles, fond and almost, _proud_ , and then he leans over to Eames and says, conspiratorially, “See how well they fit?”

Dom’s eyes are fluttering half-shut, and he’s breathing so evenly that Eames thinks he might actually be falling asleep. Mal is the opposite, almost vibrating from her joy, but she looks somehow serene, still, every bit as much as Dom, despite this.

She presses a triumphant kiss to Dom’s hair, and he just smiles, eyes still mostly closed.

Eames takes a long sip of his drink, and wonders how Mal could have possibly guessed, how she could have been so certain something like this would happen, how she doesn’t even seem surprised, now that it is.

Then Arthur touches him, just once, his hand on Eames’ elbow, and it shouldn’t be anything, but with that touch, everything seems to shift, to realign, and Eames thinks he might know, finally, what Mal means when she says to be a lover is to be a half of a whole.

But as soon as Arthur removes his hand, the feeling, the certainty, dissolves, and Eames tries to brush the memory away, telling himself he was imagining it.

It’s easy enough to do. Arthur doesn’t touch him again, doesn’t even speak to him, and after that one shocking moment, nothing much of anything happens. Not really. The same as before, they have one drink, and then Mal and Eames go home to their flat, and Arthur and Dom go off to wherever it is they spend their nights.

Before they part company, Mal kisses Dom’s cheek, and he lets her, but doesn’t return the gesture. Eames and Arthur don’t even touch, but the way Arthur looks at him, Eames almost feels as if they had.

He and Mal sleep in his bed as usual, and when she wraps herself around him in the night, talking in her sleep, Eames doesn’t know how anything could be more perfect than this.

\---

Things are different, though, in the morning.

Mal wakes up and then goes back to bed again, but Eames can’t. He gets up. He goes outside.

Arthur is standing there, waiting for him.

He checks his watch, smiles his forgiveness for the late hour, as though Eames should have known he was keeping Arthur waiting, and then starts walking away.

Eames follows him.

\---

They sit at a different cafe from the one he and Mal like to go to. It’s much nicer, but it’s almost three more blocks away, expensive, which is typically why he and Mal can’t be bothered. They rarely go out unless they’re hungover and there’s not enough food in the house to cobble something together.

Arthur orders for Eames, in perfect French, and Eames just lets him.

Arthur gets his order exactly right. His favorite kind of tea, orange pekoe, his eggs, poached, the way he likes them, his toast, a little burnt, his bacon, extra crispy. When the tea arrives, Arthur sets it steeping, and when he finally pours Eames’ a cup, it’s the perfect strength.

Arthur does all this silently, methodically, and Eames just sits and watches him.

Once Eames finishes his his tea, Arthur meets his eyes and states blandly, “You have questions.”

Eames does, but he doesn’t know to ask them. He feels thrown off balance, hopelessly out of his depth. He’s never felt like that before.

“You can ask me anything you want and I’ll tell you the truth.” Arthur’s voice is soft, sibilant, but so, so serious. Eames can hear the promise there, even before Arthur adds, “I won’t ever lie to you, Eames.”

It’s the first time Arthur has ever said his name, and Eames is amazed at what this does to his insides, the way something deep inside him he wasn’t even really aware of twists pleasantly.

“What are you?” he asks, nonsensically, wonderingly.

Arthur laughs, surprised, and maybe pleased.

“I’m a dom.”

Whatever Arthur just promised, Eames really wasn’t expecting an answer. He certainly hadn’t expected to be taken seriously. He hadn’t even meant--

“I’m not interested in whatever kind of kinky business you like to get up to, Arthur. I just want to know what you think you’re doing with Mal, with Dom, when--”

“Listen to me, Eames, and I want you to pay very close attention to me now, because this is important. I didn’t say I was _into_ being a dom. I said I was one.”

“I don’t - what does that matter - if you do it, you must--”

Arthur’s hand is suddenly on him, thumb and index finger closing around Eames’ wrist, and he squeezes, just lightly, but it sends a violent shudder through Eames’ body, and he goes limp, staring at Arthur, wide-eyed, heart pounding in his ears.

“This isn’t something we do, Eames. It’s something we are.”

Eames nods dumbly, and Arthur lets him go.

It takes Eames a few minutes to regain the barest hint of his composure, and Arthur watches him carefully the whole time Eames struggles to put himself back together. He’s not sure, but he thinks he might detect something remorseful in Arthur’s eyes.

Finally, when he has his voice back, Eames asks, “And this what - you and Dom,” he shakes his head a little at the word choice, “are?”

“Not just me and Dom,” Arthur corrects softly.

“Mal, too?” Eames guesses.

Arthur smiles, and he looks sadder than Eames has ever seen anyone look. “And you.”

Eames rubs a hand shakily across his forehead, sitting up straighter in his seat. “You and Dom. You’re together. But last night - you - you _gave_ him to Mal.” It’s not quite a question, but Eames’ voice is hesitant, testing the theory.

Arthur nods approvingly. “Dom and I found each other a few years ago, when he was first studying with Miles, and I knew of their research. I heard what they were testing, down in those dreams. I learned what they were able to do. Miles is the scholar, but Dom is the spark, he’s the only reason the experiments worked. Because of what he is, because he’s special.”

“Special?”

“Dom is a sub, pure. When I met him, he didn’t know what he was, he didn’t know how to _live_. And I had been alone for a long time. And I didn’t think - I wasn’t sure I would ever find my own sub, wasn’t sure he’d find his dom. There are so few of us, now. So I took him in hand, I taught him, slowly, what he was, how to live with it, how to _thrive_.”

Arthur smiles at the memory, and for a brief moment he looks peaceful, happy, but then his face darkens, looking at Eames again.

“But I was wrong. I thought Dom would never find his mate, I thought it wouldn’t matter that we acted as proxy for each other. But he did, he met her, and he loved her, but he was afraid to tell me. He was unhappy for months, because of that.” Arthur hangs his head, at this, his eyes fluttering shut, something lost and mournful crossing his face.

“Mal?” Eames asks, voice faint.

It’s enough to make Arthur look up, look at Eames. He nods gravely.

“Mal. She’s his true dom, his other half. They were made for one another, the way only our kind are made, wherever we come from, however we came to be. They belong together, and now, at last, they can be.”

“I don’t understand,” he says, because he doesn’t.

He doesn’t understand at all. None of this makes any sense.

Except.

 _Except._

“You and Mal, you’re like Dom and I, only you must have found each other so much younger, so young, and neither of you even knowing what you were,” Arthur’s voice is almost awed, as he continues, “it’s amazing. That you found each other at all, that you managed. You are so ill-suited to one another, and yet, closer than anything else, anyone else, you could have hoped to find.”

Arthur shakes his head, and repeats, “Amazing.”

Eames finally feels like he’s coming back to himself, feeling the confusion and panic solidifying into something harder, angrier.

“Mal is my best friend - she’s like my sister - we don’t--”

“Do you do what she tells you?” Arthur interrupts coolly, watching Eames carefully. “Do you try to give her want she wants, what she asks for, even if you don’t particularly want to, even if it’s dangerous or difficult, no matter what it is?”

Just like that, the anger dissolves, and Eames is bereft, awash, again, in a sea of confusion.

He nods, because it’s all he can seem to do.

Arthur just waits, and a few minutes later, Eames is able to ask, “So you’re saying that we’re - that I’m - I’m like Dom? The way that Mal is like you? I’m a... sub?”

Arthur shakes his head, and something dangerous flashes in his eyes. “You’re not just _a_ sub. You’re _my_ sub.”

Eames swallows, and tells himself he doesn’t believe Arthur, but he doesn’t say anything, he can’t, because when Arthur reaches across the table and touches him again, Eames knows it’s true.

He gets up from the table anyway. Arthur’s hand keeps his feet rooted in place, he finds he can’t move his limbs any further than the act of standing.

He glares at Arthur, cold and frantic, and Arthur sighs, dropping his hand from Eames’ wrist, folding his arms across his chest.

They stare at each other, and Eames thinks, wildly, that he won’t ever let Arthur touch him again.

He flees the cafe, and tells himself he’s grateful that Arthur doesn’t follow after him.

\---

When he gets back to their apartment, Mal isn’t there.

Eames curses, and decides he needs to break something.

He casts his eyes around the room, searching for something Mal won’t mind him destroying.

The thought stops him cold, the instant after he has it, and he all but crashes to the ground, crouching on the floor, arms wrapped around his knees.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, only that it’s interrupted, finally, by a knock at the door.

He gets up tentatively, hoping it’s Mal, forgetting her key, as usual. He looks through the peep hole warily, afraid it’s Arthur.

It’s not. It’s not Mal, either.

It’s Dom.

Eames is just surprised enough to let him in.

“Mal isn’t here,” Eames says neutrally, realizing as soon as Dom steps inside that that must be why he’s here.

Only Dom shakes his head, and says, “I know where she is. I came to see you.”

“Piss off,” Eames says half-heartedly, knowing he’ll be ignored.

Dom smiles at him sympathetically, and goes to sit down on the couch. He waits, and when Eames doesn’t move, Dom pats the spot beside him encouragingly.

Eames rolls his eyes, but goes to sit down with Dom.

“What do you want, then?”

“I want to explain, about Mal, and about me - and, well, mostly about Arthur.”

Eames clucks dismissively. “He already told me. Gave me the whole speech. I’ve decided to pass.”

Dom laughs hollowly. “You can’t _pass_ , Eames.”

“Well that would be the problem, wouldn’t it. I happen to enjoy making up my own mind about what I do. And who I shag.”

Dom shakes his head, sad, knowing. “No, you don’t.”

Eames reels back a little, stunned by Dom’s frankness, by the confidence he clearly has in what he’s just said.

“I don’t? And how would you know? You’ve only must met me - we’ve barely had a proper conversation! You don’t know anything about me!”

“I know everything about you.” Dom contradicts, voice eerily calm. “I know the way your hands twitch when it’s been too long since Mal told you something to do with them. I know you can’t sleep without her voice telling you it’s alright, that she’s there, that you’re safe, you can rest for the night. I know nothing makes you happier than giving her what she needs, what she wants. I know you never felt right, never even felt _real_ , before you met her.”

He smiles, just a little, and continues, “And I know none of it, nothing you’ve ever felt for her, compares to what it’s like when Arthur touches you. When he says your name. When you please him. There’s nothing better you’ll ever feel, Eames. I promise you. There’s nothing you were _meant_ for, not the way you’re meant for him.”

Dom reaches over, putting his hand on Eames’ shoulder and peering into Eames’ eyes imploringly. “Don’t fight it, you’re only hurting yourself.” He shakes his head sadly. “And you’re hurting him, which is even worse.”

“That’s mental - I mean, you do realize that this whole thing is bloody _insane_?” Eames sputters, willing his anger to rise above the thrum inside his chest whispering back to him that everything Dom is saying is the truth.

Dom sighs, running his fingers through his straw colored hair.

“I came because I thought I could explains things better than Arthur,” Dom grimaces. “He can be a bit... heavy-handed. But obviously I’m not doing any better of a job. I’m sorry, Eames.”

He looks so totally sincere, but in that moment, all Eames can do is hate him. For taking Mal away from him, and maybe, deeper down where he prefers not to look, for what Dom was to Arthur, for the way Eames knows Dom has had his hands on Arthur, the way Arthur’s had his hands on Dom.

“Get out,” Eames says, and this time, he means it.

Dom does, not saying goodbye, not giving Eames a second look.

He curls up on the couch, and pretends he’s waiting for Mal to come home, even though he already knows she won’t.

\---

He doesn’t leave the flat for two days. He drinks tea and smokes, but he doesn’t eat or shower, or sleep.

He doesn’t even bother trying that last one, knowing he won’t be able to, not without Mal there.

On the third day, he runs out of cigarettes, and his hands are shaky from lack of food or sleep. He feels weaker than he has any right to be, even without proper rest or nutrition.

He’s gone longer than this without either and felt fine.

But of course, Mal was there with him, those times.

It’s dark out when he hears a key in the door, and although he struggles to get up, his legs betray him, and Eames stays where he is, sitting on the kitchen floor.

It is Mal, though, he knows by the lightness of her steps, even before she’s exposed by the furious way she shouts his name, banging around the flat as she searches for him.

When Mal finds him, she starts swearing so rapidly that he can’t make out what she’s saying, but she rushes to him, kneeling down beside Eames and cradling him in her arms. She keeps up her litany of blasphemies, but eventually he picks out enough to realize that she’s cursing herself, not him. He even thinks he catches one or two apologies, just before he falls asleep.

\---

When he wakes up, Eames doesn’t recognize any of his surroundings, but he knows exactly where he is, all the same.

He’s in huge, luxurious bed, pillows and blankets nestled around him like a childhood fort. The room is wide and sunlit, balcony doors open wide. Everything is white and crisp, except for the dark wood of the bed frame, the other furniture. There isn’t a single thing in the room that isn’t beautiful, the art on the walls is recognizable, elegant, probably genuine.

Eames sits up in the bed, Arthur’s bed, and waits for him to come in.

Arthur doesn’t keep him waiting long. He stands in the doorway, watching Eames, a smile hovering half-formed on his lips.

“How are you feeling?” Arthur asks, stepping into the room.

Eames knows he’ll answer, every second he doesn’t he feels the words pressing persistently against his throat, but he takes the time anyway, struggling not to speak until he can decide what he actually wants to say.

“Where’s Mal?” he manages eventually, and pretends the sick feeling he gets when he watches Arthur flinch is pleasure, satisfaction.

“She’s with Dom, in their apartment.”

Eames raises an eyebrow. “ _Their_ apartment? And where’s that?”

“In this building,” Arthur answers, walking closer now, almost at the foot of the bed. “This is the penthouse, but Dom has the one just below us. They’re close,” he promises softly.

Eames wishes, contrarily, that this didn’t make him feel better, but it does.

“She’s really leaving, then,” he murmurs, telling himself he needs to hear the words aloud to really believe them.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Arthur assures him, missing the point. “She and Dom will stay where they are, and we’ll stay here. You’ll be able to see her whenever you want.”

Eames smiles tightly, and says, “Leaving me, I meant.”

Arthur’s face spasms and his hand reaches out to Eames involuntarily, or, at least, that’s Eames’ guess, given the way his hand snaps back, just shy of touching Eames, once Arthur’s regained control of himself.

“She’s not going very far,” Arthur amends, sitting down on the other side of the bed, far enough away that they’re not in danger of touching. “She’ll still be here when you need her.”

Eames looks away, out the balcony window, and says, “Not like she was before. Not now that she has him.”

Arthur makes a noise, a strange keening sound unlike anything Eames has heard before, and he finds he can’t help but turn back, looking at Arthur once again.

“You have me, now. Like Mal has Dom. Is that such a poor trade?”

Eames doesn’t say anything, thinking that, at least with Mal, it had felt like he had a choice.

With Arthur, he has no such illusions.

\---

Later, Eames gets out of bed, and goes exploring.

The flat is massive, he gets lost twice down corridors that twist and turn like a maze. He finds two libraries, a music room, an entire room full of suits and jackets and shoes. He stays there for a long time, touching Arthur’s clothes, clenching his fingers around the fine fabrics, making wrinkles, smoothing them out. He passes at least two bathrooms, one of which has a huge jacuzzi.

He goes out onto a balcony, not the one in the master bedroom, another one, on the opposite side the the flat. He looks down at the city, realizing this flat must take up a whole floor of the building. It’s a breathtaking view, looking out over the Seine, and Eames stays out there a long time, trying to amuse himself with jokes about his finely gilded cage.

Eventually, he’s too hungry for pride, and he wanders back into the solarium he came out of, getting lost once again, before he finally locates the kitchen. It’s typically huge, beautiful. It’s also the most obviously modern part of the flat, sleek lines and stainless steel, but it fits in with the rest of the space seamlessly, like Arthur, who is sitting on a stool, elbows resting against the island in the middle of the room.

Arthur looks up, momentarily startled to see Eames standing in his kitchen, but then he rises to his feet, smiling solicitously.

“I’ll make you some waffles,” he says, guessing what Eames has been craving most.

Eames doesn’t bother to nod, just goes and sits down on the stool Arthur vacated, watching him take out ingredients and a very old looking waffle iron.

“It was my mother’s,” Arthur explains, without Eames asking, without even turning around.

“Did you have a mother, then?” Eames inquires snidely.

Arthur huffs a quiet laugh. “I did. And a father. Just like you. We have parents, Eames. We’re born, just like everyone else. We’re just not.”

“What?”

Arthur shrugs, his back still to Eames as he works.

“Like everyone else.”

“How? What are we? How did you know?” Eames rattles off, feeling strangely calm, now.

Maybe it’s the feng shui in Arthur’s flat. Maybe it’s just Arthur.

“I was lucky, in my way. When I was born, my parents knew nothing of what I was, but I had an uncle who was like me, who saw me for what I was, almost instantly. He taught me what he could, helped me find my way, but of course, he had a mate already. And we were - family is different. But he still showed me how to restrain myself, how to move among people and not get noticed, how to avoid letting my strangeness show.”

Eames has to laugh, at this. “Your strangeness shows, darling.”

Arthur laughs too, and he stops measuring ingredients, turning to share his laughter with Eames.

“You may think that, but you should have seen me when I was young. I didn’t know why, but I could almost always get my way, if I wanted something, even without asking, people around me would try to find a way to give it to me.”

Eames blinks. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

Arthur sighs. “People don’t like it when they find themselves doing things when they don’t even know why. People would give me things, but it would make them angry, and confused, after the fact. No one liked me, even if they couldn’t help trying to please me.”

He smiles a little, rueful, and adds, “I’ve never been very good at making friends. Even when that’s what I wanted from someone, I could never be sure they actually wanted that from me.”

“So that’s what you... do? You make people give you what you want.”

“That’s right. But it’s something that has to be controlled, as I’ve been trying to explain. I’ve done my best not to abuse my nature. But it’s always there, in me. Sometimes I can’t control it, no matter how hard I try.”

He takes a step closer to Eames, and says, “This is why we have subs. It’s a way for my energies to be funneled appropriately, gives me an outlet, a vessel. The mark of a true sub, like a true dom, is the genuine desire to be that vessel, to serve in that way. It’s not a matter of force, not like it is with regular people. The sub wants to submit, wants to give.”

“Seems a bit one-sided,” Eames mutters darkly. “What does the sub - what do _I_ get out of all this?” It feels strange to claim himself in this way, but it feels seductively _right_ , as well.

It pleases Arthur, anyway, for Eames to say the word, and his smile is warm enough to send shivers down Eames’ spine.

“You get what you’ve always wanted most. To be exactly what someone else needs, just as you are.”

\---

The waffles are perfect, of course.

Eames eats them in silence, but when he’s done, he spares an appreciative smile for Arthur. Arthur positively beams back at him, and it’s the best Eames has felt in weeks. Possibly, if he’s being honest, it’s the best he’s _ever_ felt.

He hates, it, though, a second later, hates the way his emotions don’t belong to him, anymore, and he lets his face darken, shoulders hunching up in a protective sulk.

Arthur’s expression is drawn, careful not to let his disappointment show through. Eames can feel it anyway, but he supposes he should be grateful for the effort.

He thinks about everything he wants to know, everything that still doesn’t make any sense, and eventually settles on, “What were you doing? Coming round the pub all those times.” Never looking at me, never speaking.

“I was looking for you. I didn’t know it, at the time, but that’s why I was there.” Arthur answers simply.

Eames nods thoughtfully. “How does that work? You didn’t know me, didn’t even look at me, but you kept coming back.” He keeps to himself the fact that he had always known, instantly, before even seeing him, whenever Arthur came into the pub.

“We’re always aware of our kind,” Arthur responds, guessing anyway. “And even before we meet them, we feel our mate, we yearn for them. I had Dom, but I wasn’t complete, I was still searching, even if I didn’t let myself think about what I was searching for, even though I told myself I wasn’t suffering such foolish hope. I love Dom, and he is loyal to me, but we could not stop each other from missing our other halves, although we could lessen the pain, a little.”

“How long? How long were you and he...?” Eames trails off, trying to ignore the way the thought of Dom and Arthur together causes bile to rise in his throat.

Arthur looks deeply remorseful, though, softening the words he speaks next somewhat. “What will seem to you like a very long time. Years, now.”

“How long?” Eames presses.

“Five years. Miles discovered Dom when he was quite young. Discovered what Dom was able to do, what he made possible.”

“And what was that?”

Arthur shrugs. “Do you know anything of Miles’ research? What he’s been trying to develop - shared dreaming? The navigation of other minds?”

“Mal tried to explain it once. It seemed impossible.”

“It is. The technology doesn’t work, not really. Not without Dom, anyway. But Miles wanted it to, so badly. And Dom likes giving people what they want.”

“Like me.”

Arthur smiles, and though Eames knows Arthur wants to touch him, his hands stay where they are, folded on the table where Eames can see them.

“Like you.”

\---

Mal and Dom come over sometime after the dishes from breakfast have been washed and put away.

Mal rushes over to Eames, throwing her arms around him, hugging him and kissing his face, but she’s different, she’s so different it hurts, and he puts her arms down, stepping away from her almost immediately.

She looks wretched, for a moment, but then she takes a deep breath, and goes back to stand at Dom’s side, her face becoming peaceful and warm once again.

Her fingers twine with Dom’s and Eames feels his own hands itch to be held. Arthur takes a step towards him, but keeps respectfully out of reach.

They all stand together in a strange, pregnant silence, until Arthur eventually offers Mal and Dom a seat, and Dom moves to sit before Arthur is even finished speaking.

Dom flushes, embarrassed and apologetic, looking up at Mal. She just shakes her head, taking her place beside him, kissing his cheek. Dom smiles, forgiven, and relaxes against her side.

Eames very deliberately take one of the arm chairs, the furthest from the couch, room enough only for one.

Arthur accepts this, taking a seat across the room from Eames. He feels emboldened, for a moment, until he feels Arthur’s eyes on him, and realizes his mistake. He doesn’t need to be close to Arthur to feel his every whim, pulling at Eames’ inside, making him want to give in. All Arthur has to do is look, and he has a perfect view from his chair, his eyes heavy on Eames.

He almost gets up, and goes to sit at Arthur’s feet, but he pushes the impulse aside, turning to Mal instead.

“How are you?” he asks, wishing he didn’t already know the answer, wishing they were alone, and could speak freely.

Mal, of course, speaks freely anyway. “I have never been better. Except that I worry for you, my sweet Eames. Why will you not let Arthur make you happy, as Dom has made me happy? It’s all I want in the world, for us all to be happy.” Her voice drops as she says these last few words, and Eames can feel the power in them, more consciously than he ever has before.

He struggles to sort out the crossed wires of Mal’s wants and Arthur’s, of his own.

He eventually gives it up as a bad job, but almost smiles, a little, when he finds Dom looking at him sympathetically, realizing Dom’s loyalties must be almost equally confused.

“Can I offer you anything to drink?” Arthur asks, playing the gracious host, looking at Mal.

She smiles. “Perhaps we can go talk, while you make some tea.”

Arthur nods, and after pausing to give Eames one last cursory glance, he and Mal leave the room together.

Once they’re gone, Eames finds he can breathe a little easier, his head clearing somewhat.

He stands, and after a moment of consideration, goes and sits beside Dom. Dom says nothing, but he touches their knees together, and Eames feels calmed, from inside out, instead of the other way around, by the quiet gesture of solidarity.

\---

Mal and Arthur come back with the tea, although that only appears to be for Eames. For Dom, Mal has brought a glass of lemonade and a plate of biscuits.

Eames tries to laugh derisively, but it comes out sounding pained. Mal looks sorry, but only for an instant, and then Dom reaches out to her, his touch instantly smoothing the regret from her face.

Eames gets up from the sofa, and goes to sit back down in his solitary chair. Arthur and his cup of tea follow him there.

“Please,” Arthur says softly, and with that single word, Eames feels himself come undone.

He takes the tea from Arthur’s outstretched hand, and let’s his fingers linger, briefly, against Arthur’s.

The touch soothes them both, and a considerable amount of the tension bleeds out of the room.

Arthur and Mal start talking about living arrangements, the details of their new lives washing over Eames, unsettling him again, and he stops listening, knowing it doesn’t matter if he hears them or not, knowing he’ll go along with whatever they decide.

\---

Mal and Dom leave after a lunch of salmon and roasted garlic potatoes, something Eames’ mother used to make, once upon a time. He doesn’t even bother asking how Arthur knew that.

Mal kisses Eames on the cheek before she leaves, and after a strained moment, so does Dom.

Eames touches his cheek, where he’s just been kissed, not knowing what to say, and watches them leave in silence.

Arthur stands beside him, and Eames turns to look at him, silently asking for something, although he’s not entirely sure what.

Arthur pauses, considering his next move carefully, and then he leans forward and kisses Eames’ cheek as well.

Eames feels the strangeness of Mal and Dom’s kisses dissolve, erased from his sense memory, and he smiles at Arthur, not sure if he’s grateful or angry, but unable to stop from smiling just the same.

\---

“Do you want to go into a dream?” Arthur asks him, that evening.

Eames stares at him curiously. “I thought you said the technology didn’t work. That it was just because Dom knew Miles wanted it to.”

“It doesn’t, but Dom isn’t the only one who’s special, remember.”

Eames looks down at his hands, thinks about how strange his life has become, about how tired he is, and wonders, what’s the harm? How much stranger could things possibly get?

The answer, he quickly discovers, is _much_ stranger indeed.

Arthur whispers in his ear, explaining the rules of shared dreaming as they stand in the middle of a field of sunflowers, one that seems to go on forever. There is, at the very least, nothing else in sight. Nothing but them, that is, and a vast sea of yellow.

Arthur is in the middle of talking about projections and the subject versus the dreamer, when Eames interrupts him.

“If none of this is real, that is, if none of it works except because we want it to, then why do the rules matter? Why should there be any rules at all?”

Arthur stops short at this, clearly surprised, and Eames laughs. “For all that you are the oddest person I have ever met, you really do have an appalling lack of imagination.”

Arthur concedes the point with a wry smile, and then watches, transfixed, as Eames shifts not only the world around them, but himself, too.

It takes only a few moments of concentration, and then they are on a rocky beach, endemic of the English seaside, and Eames isn’t himself, anymore. He’s Dom, a perfect replica and he flexes his fingers, admiring the sudden smallness of his hands, the even, rounded nails, so different from his own, bloody and bitten down to the quick.

He turns up to Arthur, expecting him to be pleased, meaning for him to be, but Arthur has gone pale, horrified.

“No,” he croaks, touching Eames wildly, pushing against Eames’ chest. “Change back, change back, Eames,” his voice is frantic, but it’s an order, just the same, and Eames can’t do anything but obey.

Once he’s settled back into his own form, Arthur starts to breathe again, and he pins Eames with a hard look.

“Never think that I want you to be anyone but yourself. Never.”

Eames nods shakily, hearing the violent certainty in Arthur’s voice, and believes him.

\---

They leave the dream soon after, and Arthur sits on the floor beside Eames, eyes tracing Eames’ face hungrily, like he’s reassuring himself Eames is still real, still himself.

Eames feels sorry, but he can’t tell if that’s because Arthur wants him to, or if he just is, so he doesn’t say anything.

After a few minutes, Arthur sighs, and gets up off the floor. He offers Eames a hand Eames doesn’t take. Arthur looms over him, looking down at Eames, still kneeling on the floor, for what feels like an eternity, and then Arthur turns away, and silently walks out of the room.

\---

Eames makes grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner, although he’s not entirely sure why.

The smells draw Arthur out from wherever he was hiding, but when he comes into the kitchen and sees what Eames has done, Arthur flinches.

Eames feels hot shame wash through him, not knowing why, just knowing it’s because of Arthur.

“What is it?” he asks warily.

Arthur strains to calm himself, and Eames feels some of the embarrassment recede.

“My favorite,” Arthur explains, gesturing towards the meal Eames has prepared.

Oh. Of course.

“You never know,” Eames says, rallying with a rakish grin. “Maybe I made it terribly just to spite you.”

Arthur laughs, but the way it sounds, faint and tinny, Eames wonders if part of Arthur wishes that were true.

\---

They make it through dinner and the rest of the evening without further incident, although Eames knows it’s taking every measure of Arthur’s control to keep the mood calm.

Eames doesn’t fight it, accepting the soothing waves radiating off of Arthur, and that helps, too.

Eventually, it’s late enough that Eames is half-asleep in his seat. They’ve been playing chess, and Eames has been letting Arthur let him win.

When his fingers fumble clumsily, knocking down half the board as he reaches for one of his pawns, Arthur puts a stop to the game.

“You need to sleep,” Arthur says sternly, but Eames sneers at him.

“Can’t sleep without Mal.”

The same dark, amorphous something that always appears when Eames mentions Mal flashes in Arthur’s eyes, but he just nods, slightly, allowing himself a moment to convey his recently dormant but always infuriating self-confidence.

“I think you’ll find you’re able to sleep even better with me.”

Eames only wishes he could doubt it.

\---

He wakes up the next morning, and sure enough, he’s slept better than perhaps ever before, and he finds he can’t even remember the walk to the bed, or lying down, let alone any time spent falling asleep.

Across the pillow, he feels Arthur watching him, grinning victoriously.

He looks so pleased with himself, so devoid of guilt, for once, that Eames chooses to smile back.

“Good morning,” Arthur says softly, sounding almost worshipful, eyes taking Eames in greedily.

Eames touches his forehead to Arthur’s, just for a second, but as soon as he pulls away, he doesn’t know why he did it. He might have wanted to, or it might just have been Arthur.

He doesn’t know, he can’t know, but Arthur doesn’t stop him from trying, so he gets up out of bed, and out of the room. He finds the bathroom with the massive claw-foot tub, rather than the jacuzzi, and locks himself inside.

\---

Eames soaks in the bath most of the day, wishing desperately for cigarettes. He stays in the water until it gets cold, and then he steps out of the bath, drains it, and draws a new one.

It’s dark outside, he can almost see the stars coming out through the bathroom window before there is finally a knock on his door.

It’s Mal. He slides the key out to her, not getting out of the water, and she comes in, shutting the door behind her.

She has a pack of Dunhills. She lights one, inhales once, and then hands it to him.

He beams at her, and waves for her to sit, getting ash in the water.

She frowns at him, but sits down on the closed toilet seat.

“If you’re trying to get me to come out, you’ve made the wrong move, darling,” he tells her, smoking with enthusiasm.

She sighs, and holds out her fingers. He passes her the fag, and she smokes the way only a beautiful French woman can. He loves watching her, and is almost sorry when she hands it back.

“Why must you be so difficult? Now, of all times?”

“Maybe I only like doing things for you, what’s so wrong with that?”

She looks at him deplorably, pursing her lips.

“I’m not the one you were made to please.”

Eames smokes, glaring out the window. “Why should I be made to please anyone? Perhaps I am finally trying to please myself.”

Mal shakes her head. “If you were doing that, you would be outside with Arthur. Only he can make you truly happy.” She tsks. “Non. This is you punishing yourself, my sweet. For wanting him as much as he wants you.”

“If I want him, it’s only because he wants me to,” Eames mutters, not caring how childish he sounds.

Mal lets her fingers dip into the surface of the water, and she frowns again when she finds the water has gone cold.

“Up,” she commands regally, “Up,” and he obeys.

She wraps a towel around him, kissing his shoulder absently, and bends down to drain the tub.

She looks at his toes, wrinkled and pink, and says, “You will come outside, now. I’ll stay if you like, but Arthur is going to sit with us, and Dom, and we are all going to talk and get to know each other better.”

She doesn’t ask him if it’s alright, if he agrees, because they both know it doesn’t matter.

Mal wants it, and so Eames wants it, too.

\---

They talk for hours. Well, Dom and Arthur talk, Mal and Eames ask questions.

They learn that Arthur is much older than he looks, that he served in the Second World War, that he’s spent most of the second half of the century wandering the world alone, seeing great beauty, great tragedy, and feeling nothing. They learn that Dom is older, too, but not nearly as much, something about being with Arthur slowing his growth, so that he’s only aged a year in the last five. It explains the contrast, Eames thinks, the disconnect between the knowledge in Dom’s eyes and the youthful innocence in his cheeks.

Eames asks how it works. Mal asks if it will happen to them.

Arthur explains that, among the many things that are different about their kind, a dom’s control extends to their own body, so that they can age when they like, or not, whichever they prefer.

“Like everything, it takes practice. I didn’t learn until I was in my early 20s, and I let myself get a little older, even after I found I didn’t have to. And, of course, a dom always wants to keep their sub with them, so that process can be controlled, as well.”

“What are we, bloody _highlanders_?” Eames demands, torn between incredulity and amusement.

Arthur’s mouth quirks in a genuine smile, not like the strained ones he forces onto his face so frequently, hoping they’ll calm Eames. Eames is pleased he knows the difference, and recognizes his happiness is his own, for his own sake. Arthur, he suspects, would rather Eames not be quite as good at telling when he’s trying too hard.

“I don’t know why we’re able to control that, just like I don’t know why we’re able to do most of what we do. We just can, and have always been able to.”

“Where do we _come_ from?” Eames wants to know, even though he has already accepted that no one will ever be able to tell him.

Sure enough, Arthur just shrugs, and goes back to telling them about his life before he met them, before he met Dom, and they go on like that, Dom and Arthur talking until they’re hoarse, talking until night is gone and the sun starts to rise.

\---

Mal and Arthur make breakfast, pancakes and fruit sauce. They also make coffee, and even Eames, having been awake all night, succumbs.

It’s Mal’s coffee, anyway, the only kind he can stand to drink, and she watches him with a fond smile as he finishes his second cup. She touches his face, and shakes her head.

They’re standing at the kitchen window together, with their cups, and Dom and Arthur are at the table, sitting side by side, their knees pressed together under the table. Eames knows, because he can feel a lingering heat in his own limbs, like he’s the one being touched, even though he’s standing at the opposite end of the room.

He leans against Mal, and she slips her arm around his waist, turning to press a kiss to Eames’ neck.

Eames closes his eyes, and pretends this moment can last forever, but then he hears Dom move, just a little, somewhere behind him, and it’s over before he can even open his eyes.

Mal is gone from his side, back at Dom’s, touching his face with both hands, staring at him with more love than Eames has ever seen, more love than she ever found for him, even though he knows, he’s sure, that she tried.

He makes himself stop looking at Mal and Dom, but then there’s nothing else to look at but Arthur, who is staring at Eames sadly. It’s only when Arthur smiles for him that Eames realizes his sadness isn’t because Arthur wants Eames to be Dom, it’s because Arthur thinks Eames wants him to be Mal.

Eames is startled, even knowing that to be Arthur’s emotion, and not his own, by how wrong it feels.

\---

“Let’s go into another dream,” Eames says, as soon as Mal and Dom are gone.

Arthur chews his lip reluctantly, but eventually he agrees.

They lie down on the living room floor, slipping into a dream held together by Arthur’s desire and Eames’ desire to please him.

Together, they dream of a bedroom, a strange amalgamation of Eames’ childhood room and what he guesses must be Arthur’s.

Their real age difference is more apparent, in the dream. Arthur’s belongings are awkwardly out of date, dusty comic books that would probably be worth a fortune, now, crude model airplanes and a pinup of Grace Kelly.

Eames raises his eyebrows at that, and Arthur blushes, just a little, around the edges of his cheeks.

“I’ve always admired elegance,” is Arthur’s only defense.

Eames snorts, but doesn’t mention that this much is obvious.

Instead, Eames walks around the room, which becomes more and more Arthur’s as he moves. He picks up Arthur’s things, feeling a frisson of satisfaction in Arthur whenever he does.

Once he’s looked everywhere, Eames returns to sit beside Arthur on his twin bed.

“Explain something to me,” he says casually, looking down at his feet.

“Anything.”

“You’re always talking like we’re the last of a dying race or something equally maudlin and tragic. But what about all those people in the S&M clubs and the like? It might not be common, but the scene exists. So what about all those kinky fuckers? Are they like mudbloods, or something?”

Arthur mouths “mudbloods” curiously, but then decides he must not want to know, because he stays silent, thinking Eames’ question over.

“There used to be more of us, or we used to be more visible, at any rate. Some used to wield their abilities much more blatantly, to control, or be controlled. We always want it, I’m sure you’ve felt that. We want to be what we are, we want to live as we are. Many more of us found a way to do that publicly, once. Those who didn’t find their mates took human partners instead. It doesn’t happen much anymore, thank god. The balance is never there, in those kinds of bonds, and they are very destructive. But the practice hasn’t been completely lost, and some, who aren’t like us, still adopt our ways.”

He shrugs.

“Some must like it, I suppose. But you should know by now that it’s not the same for us, our kind. It’s not a scene for us, it’s our life, not a lifestyle. What people play at - taking our names, performing our roles, it’s not the same. They have a choice. We don’t.”

He smiles wanly at Eames. “Neither of us do.”

Eames looks back at Arthur, taking a deep breath before finally asking the question he’s long held silent, the only one, in the end, that really matters.

“Don’t you want one?”

Despite the gravity of the question, the time and resolve it took Eames to finally ask it, Arthur’s response is immediate, clear and certain.

“No. I only want you.”

Eames doesn’t know if he can say the same, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

\---

They go into a different dream, Eames imagining up a club, pulsating music and projections clad in leather, chains.

“Is that what you’re going to do to me?” he asks, trying to sound casual, nodding in the direction of a particular pair of projections. One is chained to the wall, the other is lashing him with something.

Arthur eye’s follow Eames’, and he answers calmly.

“Only if you want me to.”

Eames face scrunches. “I thought it only mattered what you want.”

Arthur shakes his head. “It’s about what we both want. You want to please me, to give me what I want, but what I want is to take care of you. To make you happy. To make you feel loved.”

“And do you?” Eames asks, again striving desperately for nonchalance.

“What?”

“Love me?”

Arthur touches his cheek, and in the dream, Eames only feels an echo of what it’s like when Arthur touches him in the waking world.

“Since before I even met you.”

\---

When they wake up, Eames decides it’s time for an experiment.

He stands before Arthur, and gives Arthur his hand. Looking like he’s fighting back his hope, Arthur takes Eames’ hand, and in an effortless movement, he’s on his feet, and they’re standing together, face to face.

Eames tilts his head to the left, and so does Arthur, he tilts right, and again, Arthur shadows his movement.

“What are we doing?” Arthur asks, the hint of a real smile on his lips.

Eames doesn’t answer, he just takes a step to the right, and is gratified when Arthur immediately follows him.

\---

“What do you like about me?” he asks, later, when they’re lying in bed.

Arthur is propped on an elbow, staring at Eames’ intently.

“What?”

Eames shrugs. “You say that you want me, and only me. Tell me why. Tell me something that isn’t.... just because you have to.”

Arthur’s gaze narrows, he straightens his shoulders, getting it, finally, gearing up for the challenge. Eames finds himself helplessly, happily, charmed.

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur begins, reaching out and tracing his finger along one of Eames’ tattoos. “You’re big, broad like you could fit all the way around me, if you tried. I think about what it would be like to be held by you, all the time. I think about what it would be like to be touched by you.”

He casts his eyes higher, settling on Eames’ lips. “I think about kissing you. Oh, Eames, sometimes it’s all I can think about, and I have to stop looking at you, or leave the room, because I’m afraid I’m going to want it too much, and I won’t be able to stop myself from _making_ you kiss me.”

Arthur hangs his head, at that, and Eames surprises himself, touching Arthur’s chin, tilting it back up so their eyes meet again. Arthur is surprised too, and Eames decides he can believe that means Arthur didn’t intend for it to happen.

“What else,” Eames says, almost slyly.

Arthur grins, like the chance is a gift Eames is giving him, the best gift he could ask for.

“You’re smart, you’re clearly so terrifyingly, dangerously smart. What you can do in the dream, the changes you can make, that’s beyond what a normal sub should be able to do. And I see the way you look at my books, my art, I see the recognition in your eyes, I can tell which books you like, which ones you hate, which ones you think I’m a pretentious bastard for owning.”

Eames laughs. “You _are_ a pretentious bastard.”

Arthur laughs, too. “I know.”

“If it helps,” Eames says, still feeling oddly shy, tentative, like he really hopes it will, “I think I could like that about you. Given time.”

Arthur stays very deliberately still, very deliberately calm, but Eames can feel the joy radiating off him anyway when Arthur says, “Take all the time you need.”

\---

In the morning, Eames looks down at the clothes he’s worn for the last three days, and doesn’t think he can bear to put them on again.

He looks across the room at Arthur, who is stepping into a pair of bespoke trousers. He hasn’t put on his shirt yet, and Eames is frozen, for a minute, desire grabbing hold of him, shutting down every other thought in his head, as he takes in the sleek lines of Arthur’s bare shoulders, his back.

Arthur turns around, surprised.

Eames smiles, owning his desire, at least in that moment, and Arthur is startled all the more, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

Instead, he takes a step closer to Eames, and asks, “What do you need?”

Eames manages to side-step the broader implications of this question, and respond to the matter at hand. “Clothes. Do you have some I could borrow?”

Arthur rubs his chin, thoughtful. “We’ll be okay with pants, I think I have some pairs lying around that haven’t been taken in yet, they’ll probably fit you. Shirts might be a bit of a problem,” he shrugs, almost playfully. “Your shoulders...”

Eames grins, remembering what Arthur said about them the night before.

“Don’t you have any t-shirts or anything that can stretch?”

Arthur gives Eames a haughty look, and Eames can’t help but laugh. It feels good in his throat, in his chest. He keeps smiling once his laughter is gone.

“Not even a tank-top? What do you wear under those lovely shirts of yours, hmm?”

Arthur shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “If I’m going to be expected to conduct myself while you traipse around in nothing more than my pants and a tank-top, you’re going to have to promise to be very patient with me.”

Eames nods, still grinning and trying to remind himself he ought to be taking this more seriously when he says, “I promise.”

\---

They find things that work, although Eames is reduced to corduroy trousers, a white tank top, and an ancient Harvard cardigan Arthur manages to locate in some boxes he has packed away.

“Better than just the tank top?” Eames asks, grinning at Arthur.

Arthur purses his lips, and says, “I don’t know if I’d say _better_ , but certainly more prudent.”

Eames winks and him, and Arthur has to leave the room to contain himself.

Eames feels a little bit bad about it, but when he follows Arthur into the kitchen a few minutes later, Arthur is smiling, wide and happy, and Eames finds he’s more than willing to smile back.

\---

Arthur starts opening cupboards, preparing to make breakfast, but halfway through pulling a large mixing bowl out from a high shelf, he stops, and turns around to look at Eames.

“What would you like for breakfast?” he asks, even though Eames is sure Arthur already knows he’s craving apple crisp.

Eames thinks about it, about the way Arthur is asking, even though he already knows, and decides to experiment again.

“Just toast, today. And I can make it myself, if you show me where you keep the bread and marmalade.”

Arthur’s face falls dramatically, and Eames panics for a minute, before Arthur announces, with an air of great tragedy, “We don’t have any marmalade.”

Eames throws his head back, and laughs, and he takes greatest delight in knowing the emotion comes purely from him, because when he stops, Arthur is still looking at him woefully.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the thing of it is, Eames can see that Arthur really means it, that it _pains _him that this only the second time Eames has really asked him for something, and already Arthur can’t provide it.__

 _Eames shakes his head, smiling encouragingly._

 _“It’s fine, Arthur. I can have something else.”_

 _“We have raspberry preserves,” Arthur offers hopefully._

 _“Wonderful.”_

 _“You don’t like raspberries,” Arthur guesses miserably, even though Eames had tried his best to mean it, when he said the word._

 _He shrugs._

 _“Who knows, perhaps I’ll discover a love for raspberry preserves I didn’t even know I had.”_

 _Arthur squints, like he’s considering calling Eames out on making him into a rather obvious metaphor about jelly, but instead he just smiles, and starts showing Eames around the kitchen, quietly teaching him how things work._

 _\---_

 _Over breakfast, they discuss what kinds of music they each like._

 _Arthur hasn’t heard of half of what Eames likes, and Eames hates almost everything that Arthur prefers, so they agree to go shopping after their meal._

 _As they leave the flat, Arthur says, “We should get you some new clothes, too.”_

 _“You don’t like me in this?” Eames teases, enjoying the sudden freedom he feels, outside of Arthur’s flat, the way he feels almost like himself, again, like he can flirt and tease and it’ll be alright, consequences be damned._

 _Arthur doesn’t take it wrong, exactly, but he does take it seriously, at least enough to brush Eames’ cheek with his gloved hand, and say, chidingly, “I like you every way.”_

 _Eames ducks his head, hiding his blush from Arthur, but, privately, allows himself to feel pleased._

 _\---_

 _“You don’t just control me,” Eames remarks, later than day, once Arthur returns with yet another shirt in a pattern that obviously offends him deeply, but which he hands to Eames obligingly, all the same._

 _They’re standing in the dressing room of a very expensive men’s boutique, surrounded by mirrors. They’ve been at it for over two hours, and Arthur’s sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened from all the effort of not begging Eames to stop trying on paisley and jackets that are two sizes too big for him._

 _Arthur raises a delicate eyebrow, waiting for Eames to continue._

 _“You don’t just control me,” Eames repeats, a little wonderingly. “I control you, too.”_

 _Arthur stares at him blankly, until he realizes Eames actually expects a response._

 _“Of course. Everything I do, everything I am, it’s for you.”_

 _Eames looks at one of the Arthur’s in the mirror, instead of the real one, when he says, “I think I’m finally starting to get that.”_

 _In the mirror, he sees Arthur’s reflection smile._

 _\---_

 _They meet Dom and Mal for lunch._

 _Mal has an emerald engagement ring on her finger._

 _For a minute, it’s all Eames can see._

 _He stops breathing, for that minute, frantically trying to remind himself this is nothing to be upset about, that everything had already been decided, and this changes nothing, nothing, it’s just--_

 _Arthur places his hand against the base of Eames’ neck, soothing him instantly, and Eames doesn’t even try to shake the hand away, he just breathes deeply, in and out, until he finally feels like it’s safe to open his eyes._

 _“Congratulations,” he says, proud he’s able to mean it._

 _Mal is so happy. He has to be happy, too._

 _\---_

 _Back in the penthouse, Arthur puts on one of the CDs Eames bought for himself, the Rolling Stones’ _Out of Our Heads_ , and pours him a glass of Campari._

Mal makes fun of him for it, but it’s always been his favorite drink.

“I thought you were going to stop doing that,” Eames says reproachfully, when Arthur slides onto the chesterfield beside Eames, handing him the glass.

He takes it anyway.

Arthur appears devoid of regret. “I give you what you need. Sometimes that’s to listen to what you say, sometimes it’s not.”

“And only you get to decide which?” Eames grouses, feeling put out all over again, all the day’s progress seeming to evaporate before his eyes.

Arthur clenches his fingers into a tight fist, and Eames knows Arthur’s fighting not to touch him.

“I’m your dom, Eames. You have to trust me. I just want to make you happy.”

Eames nods, because he knows, he believes that much, now.

“Sometimes I’m not going to be happy,” Eames points out gently.

“But not always?” Arthur asks, sounding very young, suddenly, in his helplessness.

“Not always,” Eames promises, and, very slowly, eases his way across the distance between them, leaning his head against Arthur’s shoulder.

Arthur makes a noise that can only be described as a strangled cheer.

Eames chuckles dryly, and leaves his head where it is.

\---

When he wakes up the next morning, Eames is still on the chesterfield, but he’s fully horizontal, and there’s a blanket covering him. He rubs at his cheek, trying to get his bearings, and he doesn’t breathe easy until his eyes fasten onto Arthur, tucked into the arm chair beside him.

Arthur is awake, but just barely, it would seem, and he smiles blearily at Eames, curling his fingers over his own blanket in a little wave.

Eames pushes himself up into an upright position, pulling the blanket along with him, so he’s still covered and warm.

He decides to push his luck, realizing that it will probably make both of them happy for him to do so, and pats the room he’s just made the chesterfield invitingly.

Arthur makes a pretend frown, like getting up out of his own blanket nest is a terrible trial, but Eames can feel the giddy happiness that is gripping Arthur as he quickly strides across the room to be nearer to Eames.

Eames leans against Arthur again, pressing his nose into Arthur’s cheek, still feeling loose and happy from his oddly restful night spent on the sofa.

“Why didn’t you take us to the bedroom?” he asks, although he’s glad, somehow, that Arthur didn’t.

Arthur just looks at him, and Eames realizes that that’s his answer.

“I suppose it’s not such a bad trick, after all,” he ruminates, and he can feel Arthur’s smile, even though he can’t see it.

Eames lets his limbs go loose against Arthur, and he sighs, blissfully content, but then Arthur stiffens, pulling away so quickly Eames almost face-plants with the chesterfield.

He catches himself at the last second, straightening up awkwardly, and by the time he looks for Arthur, he’s all the way across the room, his misery coming off him in waves.

“What is it?” Eames demands. They were doing so _well_.

“I wanted you to do that,” Arthur admits, his voice wrecked by bitter remorse.

Eames waits for his hackles to rise, for the anger to return, but it doesn’t come.

He waits awhile longer, and even with all the guilt pouring off of Arthur, all the anger Eames can feel Arthur has for himself, Eames feels none of it for Arthur.

“Arthur, come back here.”

Arthur blinks at him. “But I--”

“You wanted it, yes. I know.”

“Then...why?”

Eames shrugs, and his smiles feels like a victory.

“You wanted it. But I wanted it, too.”

Arthur stops focusing on his own guilt long enough to do whatever it is he always does, right before he always gives Eames exactly what Eames wants, and then he all but runs back to the sofa, reclaiming his place at Eames’ side.

Eames pushes Arthur around a little, angling him so that Eames can lie back down, his head resting comfortably against Arthur’s thigh.

Arthur inhales sharply, but Eames just nuzzles him encouragingly. After a drawn out moment of hesitation, Arthur lets his fingers settle into Eames’ hair, massaging his scalp.

Eames makes a low, appreciative noise, and feel of Arthur’s hands on him is the last thing Eames is aware of before he’s lost again to sleep.

\---

A few days later, Mal and Eames go back to their old flat to sort out what they want to bring from their old life into their new ones.

They end up sitting on the living room floor, surrounded by boxes and piles of their belongings, unable to determine what belongs to whom, an empty bottle of wine somewhere behind them and another one opened and half-gone.

They’re drinking from the bottle, because none of their glasses are clean.

“We won’t bring those, of course,” Mal says, laughing the way that she always does when she’s a bit drunk, like everything is more interesting, more delightful.

It’s charming on Mal the way it isn’t on most other people.

But then, Eames thinks that about most things Mal does.

As if she knows what he’s thinking, and maybe she does, in her way, Mal frowns at him, pushing at Eames’ head a little with her fingertips.

“Why must you be so difficult?” she demands, repeating her question from several nights before.

Eames resents it a little less, this time. On the other hand, “I’ve been trying!”

And it’s true, he has. He almost kissed Arthur before he left with Mal. He hadn’t, but he’d wanted to, and Arthur had been distracted, saying something to Dom, so Eames is reasonably sure it was strictly his desire.

Mal just frowns more, making an unimpressed “pssshing” sound. He thinks she might be trying to say “pshaw,” but is too drunk to remember the correct order of the syllables.

“I see the way he is with you! He walks on eggshells! That is no way for a dom to behave.”

Eames bites down on the inside of his cheek. “How does this not bother you? What you can make Dom do, without even saying anything, that honestly doesn’t bother you?”

Mal looks at him like the question doesn’t even make any sense. Eames pretends it’s the wine.

“I do those things _for_ Dom,” she insists, her voice still and utterly confident. “He needs me.”

Eames looks down at the stack of records piled between them, the ones they bought and stole together, over the years.

“Like I used to?” he allows himself to ask, letting how much he misses her show in his eyes.

But Mal shakes her head, unwavering.

“Non. Like you need Arthur.”

\---

In the taxi, on the way back to Arthur and Dom, Mal asks, “Why do you deny him? Deny yourself? In all the years you have been my friend, I have never known you to deny yourself the things you want. You thrive on impulse, on desire. That is who you are.”

“It’s one thing if I’m pursuing my own desire. It’s another when I’m bowing to someone else’s.”

Mal clucks her tongue disapprovingly. “You do not want Arthur because he wants you to. You want him because he’s yours.”

“How do you know that?”

“How can you doubt it? You’ve seen what he is willing to do for you, you’ve felt what it is to be close to him, to be touched by him.”

She tosses her hair, the way she does only when she’s starting to get truly impatient with him.

“But even before all that, you still wanted him. Have you forgotten so quickly? The way you used to watch for him every night at the pub, the way you would always go home in a terrible temper the nights he didn’t come? It wasn’t just for Dom - the way I always pushed you towards him. I knew what he was to you, just as I knew what Dom is to me.”

“And the fact that none of us have a choice? That doesn’t trouble you?”

“Love is not a choice, my Eames. Love is a sacrifice, a surrender. When it is real, it is unconditional. So why would I want a choice, when I could have Dom? When I would only end up choosing him anyway?”

“But how do you know?”

Mal shrugs.

“Maybe I don’t _know_. But that’s what I feel.”

\---

When they get home - back to Arthur’s building - Eames is sure he owns the whole thing, and not just the two floors they all live on - Dom and Arthur are waiting for them in the lobby.

It’s the kind of building that still has a doorman, but Arthur is the one who holds the door open for them, letting them back inside.

He takes the box of books out of Mal’s hands and looks at Eames curiously.

Eames isn’t carrying anything.

“There wasn’t anything you wanted to bring with you?”

Eames shrugs. “You bought me new clothes and music and things, anyway.”

Arthur looks between Eames and Mal, mostly focusing on Mal, like he expects her to give him a better clue than Eames will, right now.

Personally, Eames thinks that’s cheating, but then, so is everything Arthur does. Really.

“He’s sulking,” Mal informs Arthur loftily, although that’s probably not actually that much of a revelation.

She shakes her head, kissing Eames on the cheek and patting Arthur on the arm.

“I recommend letting him soak in the tub for an hour whist listening to that terrible punk music he insists he likes, even though I know it makes his teeth rattle. By then you might be able to talk some sense into him.”

With that, Mal reclaims her box of books from Arthur’s hands, and she marches towards the elevator, Dom trailing silently after her.

Once they’re gone, Arthur and Eames are left standing in the lobby alone - the doorman has chosen this moment to take a discrete coffee break.

“Should I listen to her?” Arthur asks, trying to make his voice sound light, casual. His hands are even stuffed in his trousers pockets, to add to the effect.

Eames sighs, he doesn’t have the energy to play.

“You should listen to me. And I say I’m going to bed. Alone.”

Arthur doesn’t point out that it’s only four in the afternoon. He doesn’t mention that they both know Eames won’t be able to fall asleep without him.

He just says, “Alright,” and nothing else.

It’s permission enough, and Eames walks away without another word.

\---

Sometime after midnight, Eames is still lying awake, stubbornly refusing to get out of bed, or call Arthur to come in so he can actually sleep.

The phone on the bedside table rings, and Eames answers it impulsively.

“Arthur’s residence,” he says as snootily as he can.

“Mal says you need to stop being a prat, and let Arthur come to bed.”

It’s Dom, and he sounds like he’s sorry to be calling, saying these things, but also like he has no choice in the matter.

Eames supposes he can relate.

“Thank you for the message, Dom. You can tell her to fuck off.”

Dom laughs, soft and sad, and Eames thinks he’s like a bird, or something equally flighty and fragile, so easily upset, so changeable, given the moods of those around him.

He’s so like Eames, simply by virtue of what they both are, and yet, and yet, he’s not like Eames at all.

Eames realizes this is probably because Eames had Mal, and Dom didn’t have anyone, not for a very long time.

Dom hasn’t hung up, and neither has Eames, and eventually Eames asks, “Do you want to come up? I can teach you how to bluff at poker.”

There’s a quiet murmur of back and forth, and Eames sighs, wishing Dom hadn’t asked for permission, but understanding that he probably doesn’t know how to do things any other way.

“Why don’t you come down?” Dom counters, obviously speaking for Mal, again.

Eames reminds himself it’s not Dom he’s mad at, and says smoothly, “Alright, darling, I will. Be ready for me.”

He hops out of bed, realizing what he’s feeling is close to excitement - he’s never actually been in their flat, hasn’t seen where Mal lives. He wonders if it will still feel like Dom, like it’s his home the way Arthur’s flat is still so obviously his, or if it will already feel like Mal.

He passes Arthur on his way out, reading in the living room, and Arthur jumps to his feet, blinking somewhat frantically.

“Where are you going?”

Eames hears the panic in Arthur’s voice, blind and without artifice, and all of his bravado collapses in on itself.

His shoulders droop, and he walks over to Arthur, pressing their foreheads together, letting it steady both of them.

“I’m going to corrupt an innocent. You’re not invited. But I promise I’ll come back.”

Arthur withdraws from Eames’ touch, but the look on his face is mildly amused, now, instead of frightened.

“Is Dom the innocent in this scenario? Because I have to warn you, there’s nothing innocent about him.”

Eames is broadsided by a dizzying flash of jealously, burning hot in his chest, and he has to grab onto Arthur’s shoulder to keep from falling.

Arthur catches him, his amusement shifting instantly into contrition.

“If helps, he wasn’t innocent before I found him, either,” Arthur offers softly.

Eames thinks about it, thinks about what this probably means, what life must have been like for Dom, beautiful as he is, eager as he is to please, and shakes his head.

“No. No, it really doesn’t.”

Arthur’s face darkens, and Eames realizes that, for once, he’s glad they’re feeling exactly the same thing.

\---

Dom is terrible at poker.

Just abysmal.

First it amuses Eames, and then it confuses him.

“But what about if I want you to be good at it? I’m teaching you, I want you to learn.”

Dom shakes his head, shuffling the cards. He’s good at that, at least. Quick hands.

“It doesn’t work on other subs. I can’t make you do anything, either.”

Eames takes this in. “Really? That’s... intriguing.”

Dom squints warningly. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Eames raises his eyebrows in faux innocence. “Me? What kind of ideas would I get?”

Dom shakes his head a little, dealing the cards now. “You think I don’t know you, but I know Mal, and I know myself, and that’s more than enough. Never mind that, I know Arthur.”

“And what does knowing Arthur have to do with knowing me?”

Dom narrows his eyes, again, but this time it’s friendly, a gentler kind of disapproval.

“You’re all the things I’m not, all the things he wanted that I wasn’t. Headstrong, impulsive, vain without being at all sure of your worth. You’re brash and bold, or at least you would be, if you weren’t so angry, so confused by what’s happening to you.” Dom shakes his head. “No, I know you, Eames. You’ll be everything Arthur has ever wanted - a partner, a rival, someone to challenge his every move, his every desire. Nothing will compare to the satisfaction he gets when he finally wins you, when you finally realize that fighting him is nothing compared to giving in.”

“Is that right?” Eames drawls, managing to sound cocky, even as he feels as if all the breath has been knocked out of him.

Dom just nods, serene in his certainty.

“That’s right.”

\---

When Eames goes back upstairs, it’s after four, and he searches everywhere, looking for Arthur.

He feels somewhat idiotic, really, when he finally finds Arthur asleep in his bed. For some reason, it just hadn’t occurred to Eames to check there.

But just because Eames can’t sleep without Arthur doesn’t mean--

“Hey,” Arthur says, sounding perfectly awake.

He turns on the lamp, and Eames is momentarily blind, but he adjusts, eyes zeroing in on Arthur like he’s the only thing in the room.

“So, as it turns out, Dom is bloody terrifying,” Eames announces as nonchalantly as he can manage, sauntering over to the bed, stripping as he goes.

He stands before the bed in nothing but his boxers, and then climbs in when Arthur pulls away the corner of the covers in a silent invitation.

“I did try and warn you,” Arthur points out.

Eames ignores this, fluffing his pillow and then collapsing onto it, eyes open, staring at the shadows on the ceiling.

“You sort of kidnapped us,” Eames mentions, because it feels like it’s about time he did.

Now that he understands that Dom is exactly as powerful as Arthur, the reality of their situation - his and Mal’s - is starting to settle in more fully.

Arthur is on his side, his knees tucked loosely against his chest, propped up on an elbow. He touches Eames with his free hand, tracing the lines of Eames’ jaw, his collarbone.

His expression is thoughtful, almost coldly calculating. “Do you want me to say I’m sorry, for that?” Arthur asks, moving his hand to Eames’ chest, fingers splayed over Eames’ heart.

“Are you?” Eames manages to ask, shivering, shaking under Arthur’s touch.

“No,” Arthur hisses, and just keeps going, his hand still flat against Eames’ chest, body angling closer, hips molding themselves against Eames. As he presses closer, Eames can feel that Arthur is hard, and it’s only then that Eames realizes his own cock is swelling inside his thin cotton boxers.

He moans helplessly, burying his face into Arthur’s neck, hauling Arthur all the way on top of him, until their bodies are perfectly aligned and then Arthur _moves_ and it’s - it’s all Eames can feel - he can’t think - he can’t and then - and then--

Arthur is gone, gone from his arms and from the bed, moving so quickly it makes Eames’ head spin, makes his head spin _more_.

“Stay,” Arthur orders, when Eames starts to move, to reach for him.

“Was that?” Eames blurts, mind still racing, his arousal refusing to be beaten back. “Was that you or me?”

Arthur makes a shaky, unhinged choking sound, and says, “I’m not sure. But I’m willing to take the blame.”

It should be easy to let him, but Eames ends up shaking his head.

“I wish you’d come back over here to me, Arthur.”

Arthur is leaning against the wall, his arms spread-eagled behind him, fingers stretched wide. He never turned off the lamp, so Eames can see the strain in Arthur’s throat, in his hands, like it’s taking every bit of his control to stop from doing what Eames is asking for.

“I think you’re being a tad over dramatic, darling,” Eames chides. “I’m not a blushing virgin.”

Arthur makes another choked sound, shaking his head, just once, but severely.

“Don’t talk to me for a minute,” he bites out, and Eames rolls his eyes a little, but, of course, he can’t help but obey.

Once Arthur has finally regained his composure, he gives Eames a stern look.

“Unless you want me to start doing some very invasive research into your past and then some very indiscreet, ill-advised murdering, you’re not going to want to mention any other - _experience_ \- you may have had again. Alright?”

Eames wants to continue joking, wants to laugh and smile, because he was happy and hard, a minute ago, but he can see that Arthur means it, and really, he’d rather Arthur not murder all of Eames’ past sexual partners.

Well, not most of them, anyway.

“Come back to bed, Arthur,” he repeats instead.

Arthur does. He slides under the covers cautiously, tutting at himself.

“I should have you tied to this bed, I should be taking you apart, layer by layer,” he sighs. “You will want me to, I know you will. It’s what both of us were made for - but I can’t - not when you’re so--”

“Let me fight you awhile longer, eh? Even if we both know what’s coming. I just need a little more time.”

Arthur nods, leaning over, just for a moment, to kiss the top of Eames’ head, and then he pulls away, and shuts off the light.

Part of Eames, a surprisingly large part, is screaming for him to take it back, to say anything, anything, to get Arthur to put his hands on him again, but he keeps that part of him silent, forces himself to breathe steadily. He focuses on that, on breathing, and tries to stop himself from wondering whether he’s waiting because he’s not ready, or because he’s thinking about what Dom said to him, about how it will feel when he does finally give in.

Try as he might, he can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s only waiting because something like that, something that good, is worth waiting for.

\---

They have a fight. There’s yelling involved.

Quite a lot of it.

Eames yells the most, but Arthur’s tightly wound control snaps somewhere along the way, and then he’s yelling too. At one point, Eames is reasonably sure they’re going to start hitting one another.

It’s marvelous.

He feels exhilarated, free, and he doesn’t care if it was his anger or Arthur’s that set them off. They feed off each other, voices getting progressive louder, their words harsher.

They avoid coming to blows, but just barely.

Inevitably, they scream themselves hoarse, they run out of insults, out of air.

Eames refuses to give in first, and for awhile, so does Arthur. After fuming at each other silently from opposite ends of the living room for an interminable amount of time, Arthur holds up a hand.

“Truce?”

Eames nods grudgingly. “Truce.”

He moves to sit down on the chesterfield, and Arthur fixes them each a drink.

When he sits down, he nudges Eames’ knee with his own.

“I don’t even remember how we started fighting,” Arthur admits ruefully, once he’s had a few sips of brandy.

“Nor me,” Eames agrees, starting to grin. “You’re still wrong, of course.”

Arthur laughs.

“Of course.”

\---

They’re making dinner. Mal and Dom are coming over in an hour, and Arthur and Eames have been working in silence, moving together like a well-oiled machine, for the last three.

The meal they’re preparing is complex, designed to satisfy Mal’s occasional and extreme bouts of fussiness and Dom’s desire to impress her by having similarly cultivated tastes.

Eames thinks that, a month ago, he would have felt disdainful pity for Dom. Now all he feels is amused affection, and ever burgeoning kinship.

Mal used to be his only friend. She’s not, anymore.

He can admit to himself, if not quite yet to Arthur, that four is better than two.

\---

Some nights, Dom comes upstairs and he and Arthur play chess while Eames goes downstairs and lies on the floor, dreaming with Mal.

She loves it, almost more than she loves anything, apart from Dom, which is why she says she prefers to dream with Eames.

“If I were to go into a dream with him,” she shrugs, “I would never leave.”

Eames doesn’t mind. He likes it, even. Likes having something, again, that they don’t have to share with anyone but each other.

\---

Eames has been with Arthur for almost two months when he has a revelation.

They’re making omelets for a midnight snack, although Eames doesn't know which one of them had the craving that initially woke them both up. Maybe they both did.

Regardless, he decides to share his revelation with Arthur as he passes him the knife he knows Arthur wants to chop up the green onions with.

“So what,” he announces triumphantly.

“So what?”

Eames nods vigorously.

“What does it matter if doing things for you feels so sodding wonderful? Sometimes, people who care about each other do things for one another. Sometimes it’s enough, giving someone else what they want.”

Arthur looks at him like Eames is a crazy person. It’s something that’s started to happen quite regularly. Eames is rapidly becoming rather fond of those times.

“It makes you happy. It makes me happy. Why shouldn’t I enjoy that?”

Arthur was already standing perfectly still, but he stills _more_ , somehow. It happens in his face, especially around the eyes.

“Do you? Enjoy it?”

Eames scoffs. “Don’t be coy, darling. It doesn’t suit you. You know that I do. But I think - I think I could be that, Arthur. I think I could care about you like that.” He shakes his head. “I mean, I already do. But I think I could want to. I think I could _choose_ to.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, trying so hard not to sound hopeful.

“Let me choose you, Arthur,” he surging towards Arthur, and is surprised, bereft, when Arthur takes a step back.

“Arthur, darling,” he says, reaching out.

“Why are you saying this now, Eames?” Arthur asks, stopping him in his tracks, making him think.

“Because I...” he trails off.

Arthur’s hope shutters, locked safe behind a cold, emotionless expression again.

Eames regroups. “Mal was right - it doesn’t matter why I feel the way I do. It just matters that I feel it. It’s like Dom and his bloody metaphor about trains.”

“Trains?” Arthur repeats, skeptical.

Eames laughs. “You haven’t heard it? I think he must say it to Mal at least half a dozen times a day, but she still gets all a-flutter whenever he does.”

“What does he say?” Arthur wants to know, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Eames waves a hand. “Oh, something about waiting for a train - and it not mattering where the train is going--”

“Because you’ll be together,” Arthur finishes.

Eames grins. “You have heard it, then.”

Arthur shakes his head. “No, I just know Dom.” He smiles wistfully. “He’s a romantic.”

Eames smiles the same way. “Like Mal.”

A strange, lonely silence settles over them, and Eames rolls on the balls of his feet, feeling hopelessly awkward all at once.

“It’s a good thing we’re both so sensible, at least,” he offers, trying to regain his smile.

Arthur doesn’t say anything, just goes back to his chopping. He’s for so long that Eames thinks maybe he’s not going to respond at all.

But then Arthur turns back to him, and asks, softly, “How is this for romance? You scare the shit out of me.”

Eames is momentarily stunned, knowing what this admission must have cost Arthur. Doms aren’t supposed to be afraid. They’re not supposed to doubt themselves. But when he thinks about it that way, it makes Eames beam.

“That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Arthur laughs, but his eyes are warm, serious, and Eames is glad, suddenly, that what he told Arthur is true.

“You don’t,” he adds, like a gift.

“Don’t what?”

“Scare me.”

Arthur’s answering smile is Eames’ greatest accomplishment.

\---

Arthur snores.

He thinks the internet is one of mankind’s greatest inventions, but he hates watching the telly, although he buys one anyway, at Eames’ request. He hates birds for no reason Eames can determine, and sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night, shaking, because he’s had a dream, maybe from the war, maybe from all the years he spent totally alone, after it.

He’s bossy, and not just with Eames, not just because somehow, that’s what he is, as if that would be an excuse. He’s that way with everyone, with waiters and the cleaning staff that comes to their flat once a week, with people on the street who are obviously lost but haven’t even asked him for directions.

He’s not mean, exactly, but he is terribly condescending, and the most unfortunate part, in Eames’ opinion, is that he’s very nearly always right, and so there’s rarely any reason for people to contradict him.

Eames contradicts him anyway, just on principle, but it has the infuriating result of _amusing_ Arthur, more often than causing him to actually listen to Eames’ point of view. Eames wants to strangle Arthur, sometimes, and he relishes those moments, because he knows, or at least feels comfortable assuming, that Arthur doesn’t actually _want_ to be strangled.

Although, maybe just a little.

Or that might just be something Eames wants.

It is hard to tell, after all.

The only one who doesn’t put up with Arthur’s haughty condescension is Mal, and Eames likes to think it isn’t just because she’s a dom, too. He likes to think it’s because she’s Mal. Mal, who doesn’t, and will never, take any shit from anyone.

She mostly lets Arthur say what he wants to Dom, though, but that’s probably because Dom lights up like a bloody Christmas tree every time he does something Arthur likes. Eames tries to be even-tempered about that, but it only works some of the time.

He doesn’t like upsetting Dom, though, it’s rather like kicking a puppy, so he strives to keep his petty jealousies in check.

Besides, Arthur is the one standing between them now, not Dom. Eames has tried to express on several occasions that he’s done waiting, that he’s made his choice and that his choice is Arthur, but his advances have been gently, and for this reason, infuriatingly, rebuffed.

He tries to tell himself that it’s just Arthur being careful, trying to respect the boundaries Eames fought for for so long. He tries, but he can’t help but be afraid, when he’s alone, when Arthur isn’t there to touch or look at him, that maybe, just maybe, now that Eames has finally made his choice, Arthur has decided to make a different one.

Or that he at least wishes he could.

Eames doesn’t enjoy feeling like a giant girl’s blouse, but evidently being in love will do that to you. Especially when you’re in love with someone capable of being as singularly maddening as Arthur has an all too frequent tendency to be.

In an addition to being an insufferable know it all, an emotionally manipulative bastard, and, most recently, a cocktease, Arthur continues to live up to the moniker they gave him, back when Mal and Eames didn’t even know his name. Everyday, no matter if they’re going out or not, Arthur dresses impeccably and never has a hair out of place. He may not be willing to get with the times in other respects, particularly noticeable in his taste in music and his attitude towards holding doors open for women, but Arthur is nothing if not fashionable. Elegant, classic, but always riding the cutting edge of the most elite fashion trends.

He’s perfect in all those respects, totally in control, and yet he can never remember to buy them groceries, and he’s forever forgetting to take out the garbage. He admits, after some questioning, that these are things Dom always used to do.

Eames starts doing them instead.

Sometimes he and Dom go to the market together, like good housewives, Eames always jokes, but Dom just looks at him, slant-eyed, shaking his head. Dom takes groceries very seriously.

Dom takes everything very seriously. Especially the things that are for Mal, or for Arthur.

Eames knows he probably doesn’t really want to know, but he finds himself asking Dom about his time with Arthur anyway.

Dom usually finds a way not to answer, but one afternoon, over a stand of oranges Dom is slowly inspecting, trying to find the perfect dozen, Eames cracks.

“Alright, out with it. I’m on board - now, alright, Dom? Is what what you need to hear? I’m a sodding sub - I’m _Arthur’s_ sub. You’re the one who knows him - you know what he likes, what he wants. Tell me how to give it to him.”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh come now, Dominic. Don’t tease. We both know you and he--”

“Eames, I mean it,” Dom says, putting down the orange he was holding. “I’m not Arthur’s sub. _You_ are. I never knew what to give him. Sometimes he would tell me, of course, or I would guess correctly, but we’re not - we never belonged. I really can’t help you.”

“Jesus, Dom,” Eames grouses. “I’m not asking for the secrets to the sodding universe, here. I just want to know what he _likes_. Don’t get me wrong, I’d happily drop to my knees and do things the old-fashioned way if I thought I’d be able to get my mouth on him before he had another moral panic and ran off, but he’s a stealthy sort and frankly, I don’t like my chances.”

Eames sighs dramatically. “Pity, too. I’m _brilliant_ at sucking cock.”

“I’m sure you are,” Dom agrees absently, back to paying more attention to the produce than to Eames.

Eames sighs again, more pointedly this time, if possible, and Dom turns to him obligingly, smiling in a way that’s obviously meant to convey, “I’m here for you, I acknowledge your pain.”

Eames laughs, grabbing Dom by the scruff of the neck and ruffling his hair.

Dom makes an undignified squeak and Eames lets him go.

“Which do you prefer, by the way?” Eames asks a few moments later, as they stroll towards the dairy aisle. He’s given up on getting any real answers out of Dom, at least for the day.

“Which what?” Dom murmurs, stopping to load his cart with a container of ricotta.

“Oh, you know. Sucking cock or eating a bird out.”

Dom tucks a stray strand of hair back behind his ear and says, “I prefer Mal.”

“So predictable,” Eames laments with an eye roll.

Dom shrugs, wholly unconcerned, and then wanders away, off to find whatever is next on his list.

Eames watches him go, and wonders what it would be like to be so sure of one’s place in the world.

\---

That Saturday, the four of them finally go out on the town to properly celebrate Dom and Mal’s engagement. The wedding is coming up, and Arthur reasonably points out they have to celebrate the engagement before they can celebrate the wedding. The restaurant they go to is the sort of place that doesn’t even have prices on the menus, and the four of them are the only ones there, save for a few nearly invisible members of the staff.

They drink and eat and talk the night away, and by the end, their faces are practically glowing from the strength of their combined happiness.

When they’re finally ready to leave, Arthur settles the bill distractedly and Eames finally has to ask.

“Where does all your money come from? Did you trick some poor old sod into thinking they wanted nothing more than for you to inherit all their family jewels?”

Arthur smirks faintly, and says, “Nothing quite so nefarious, I’m afraid. Just compound interest and prudent investing. I have been around for awhile, remember.”

“Compound interest and prudent investing?” Eames decries. “Honestly, darling. _Where_ is your imagination?”

Instead of being slighted, Arthur regards Eames ever so coolly.

“Maybe I’m saving it all for you.”

Eames shudders pleasantly, just from the promise in Arthur’s voice alone.

\---

On the ride back from the restaurant, Arthur sits in front with the driver, and Eames is crammed into the back with Dom and Mal. He entertains himself by complaining loudly that the least Arthur could have done was spring for a limo instead of a regular taxi.

“A stretch limo, darling. With one of those lovely sunroofs so that I could stand up in it and look out at the city as we go.”

“You have a window, Eames,” Arthur responds dryly. “Look out that instead.”

He probably doesn’t actually mean it that way, but Eames takes this as an order anyway. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. Bossy though he may be, Arthur is so perpetually loathe to give Eames actual orders that Eames finds himself clinging to the scraps in Arthur’s speech, taking what he can get.

It’s all rather pathetic, really, but he’s hooked, now, addicted to the rush of getting something right, and he can’t help but try for it, again and again, even though Arthur seems to want for so little. Especially from Eames.

So he stays silent, hoping it’s what Arthur wants, and watches Paris pass by in the taxi window. He focuses on breathing so quietly he barely makes a sound, feeling a faint rush of satisfaction from Arthur and trying to will himself even quieter, hoping for more, until his concentration is finally broken by Mal’s hand on his cheek, and then he turns to look at her instead of the city she was born in.

She’s far more beautiful, anyway.

“Je t’aime, Eames,” she says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. It’s not the first time she’s said it, but it’s the first time since she met Dom, since everything changed.

He smiles for her, glad that some things, at least, never will.

“Je t’aime aussi.”

\---

He’s happy, and still quite drunk from all the champagne, and he blames this happiness (and to a lesser extent the champagne) for what happens next.

He and Arthur have said their good-nights to Dom and Mal, exchanging kisses on cheeks, and now they’re secured inside their flat, alone, together.

Arthur locks the door, and he smiles at Eames, and this, more than anything, makes Eames bold.

“Do you have a ring for me, then?” he means it to be teasing, but the words come out sounding serious despite himself.

And yet Arthur shakes his head without even pausing to think about it.

Eames is disappointed, shockingly so, at least until Arthur says, “I have something else for you.”

“What is it?” he asks, amazed by how badly he wants to know.

Arthur considers Eames’ face carefully, for what feels like a very long time, and then he walks out of the room.

When he comes back, Arthur is carrying a thin black box.

Eames’ palms itch to reach out and take it from Arthur, but he makes himself wait for Arthur to come to him.

Once they’re standing only inches apart, Arthur opens a box.

There’s a collar inside.

Eames is dimly aware that he should be far less surprised than he actually is, but almost all of his thoughts are taken up by how desperately he wants to put it on.

By how much he wants _Arthur_ to put it on him.

He reaches out, helplessly compelled, wondering if the black leather is as soft as it looks, but Arthur takes a step back, closing the box.

Eames made a low, mournful sound at the loss, but Arthur touches his cheek placatingly.

“Not yet,” he says, his voice still heavy with promise.

Eames swallows. “When?”

Arthur smile is almost feral.

“Soon.”

\---

Despite his claims that he doesn’t know how to help, it’s Dom who eventually gives Eames the idea.

He’s talking on the phone with Miles, explaining why he hasn’t been coming into the college, and managing to do so without mentioning that it’s because he’s been too busy planning a secret wedding to Miles’ daughter, which Eames finds very impressive. Dom is far sneakier than he looks, which is part of his charm, Eames supposes.

After he’s done apologizing, Dom moves onto a discussion of the new theory Miles wants to test. Eames only gets Dom’s half of the conversation, of course, but the gist of it seems to be that in the dreamstate, the subject’s psychological defenses are lowered, making it easier to extract relevant information from them.

Miles and Dom are discussing this in the context of cognitive therapy, unearthing suppressed memories and getting to the root of trauma.

Eames is thinking about it in the context of Arthur.

It is, of course, a terrible violation of the sanctity Arthur’s mind, etc, etc, what isn’t, these days?

Nobody is playing fair, and still it seems appallingly bad form that Arthur seems to have Eames entirely figured out, all the while Eames has continued to come up frustratingly blank, even though figuring people out, figuring _Arthur_ out, is supposed to be _his_ job description.

Eames is tired of losing, or feeling like he’s crap at the one thing he’s supposedly made for, and so he makes a decision. Since he can’t figure out how to be what Arthur wants in the waking world, he’ll just have to figure it out in a dream, instead.

\---

He waits until Arthur is already asleep, of course.

It’s not like he was going to stalk Arthur around the flat and stick him with a syringe stock full of sedative.

Arthur would never let Eames sneak up on him. It would be mayhem.

No, he waits until they’re in bed, several nights after Mal and Dom’s engagement party of four. It’s hard, with Arthur warm and lax, right there beside him, not to fall immediately to sleep himself. But Eames waits, because he wants Arthur to be in a deep, proper REM sleep before he tries to enter Arthur’s mind and construct what will hopefully be a very revealing dream.

After an hour, Eames has exhausted his patience, and he falls asleep the quickest way he knows how, resting his head against Arthur’s chest and losing himself to the rhythm of Arthur’s heartbeat.

When he comes back to himself, Eames is in a room he doesn’t recognize, but Arthur is nowhere to be found.

Discouraged, Eames spends a few unproductive minutes exploring the room alone, wondering if lucid dreaming is always this boring when you’re doing it by yourself.

He concentrates very hard on Arthur, on wanting Arthur with him, but all that does is produce a door out of nowhere, merging into one of the walls.

Shrugging to himself, Eames opens it, and starts walking. He walks for a long time, long enough that he’s starting to think about waking himself up, dissolving the dream, when he reaches another door.

He opens that one, too.

Arthur is inside.

So is another Eames.

They’re... talking.

They’re curled together on a love-seat, just room enough for two, foreheads pressed together, whispering to each other, their fingertips fanned out, touching.

Eames remembers how it felt, changing into Dom in that first dream, and manages to will his limbs away so that he can approach Arthur and the other Eames without being detected.

Once he’s close enough to hear, Eames realizes Arthur and his doppelganger are having an argument about which kind of cheese is better, provolone or havarti. Eames recognizes the conversation, they had it almost two weeks ago, when Eames was making a grocery list. Arthur wanted provolone, and even though he knew Eames preferred havarti, Arthur had taken it upon himself to _reason_ with Eames about the inherent superiority of provolone for almost an hour before Eames had finally kissed him, just once, their first real kiss, just to shut Arthur up.

It was an impulsive moment, short-lived, and nothing had come of it.

Nothing is coming of it in the dream, either.

Eames watches the conversation and kiss loop in on itself twice before he finally realizes Arthur isn’t eventually going to take liberties with the dream and make things more interesting. He doesn’t even seem to _want_ to, which frustrates Eames all the more.

Apparently, in his dream, Arthur is content to repeat his ludicrous arguments about why hard cheeses are always better, and why provolone is _particularly_ superior to havarti, all the while the projection of Eames bickers with him and Arthur stares back at him adoringly.

Other than their location, the look on Arthur’s face is the only marked difference, really, from the dream and the reality Eames remembers. When they actually had the conversation, Arthur had been exhibiting his characteristic stoicism, impassively listing the merits of provolone while Eames called him names and insulted his parentage.

In the dream, Arthur is beaming nakedly at Eames, occasionally stopping in between arguments to touch Eames’ face, his lips, without intent or purpose, it seems, beyond admiring the view.

Eames looks closer, and realizes there is a third, staggering difference.

In the dream, Eames is collared.

At that sight, Eames’ loses his grip on the dream, and it shatters around them, the walls crashing in, ceiling falling down on their heads.

He wakes up in his own bed, gasping, and a second later, so does Arthur.

“Are you alright?” Arthur shouts hoarsely, grasping wildly for Eames in the dark.

“I’m here, I’m alright,” Eames babbles, grabbing Arthur’s hands and guiding them to his face.

Arthur inhales raggedly, his fingers digging into Eames’ skull, his jaw, his grip painfully, pleasantly, tight.

“What was that?” Arthur demands, once he’s recovered, finally loosening his death grip on Eames’ face. “Were you...?”

Eames considers lying, but really, it’s not as if Arthur wouldn’t be able to tell.

Didn’t really think that one through, it turns out.

“Sorry,” he offers lamely.

“Sorry?” Arthur echoes incredulously, turning on the light.

Eames flinches slightly, covering his eyes.

“I didn’t think the dream would collapse like that. I didn’t think.” Eames expands his apology, adopting what he hopes is a forgivable expression.

Arthur sighs harshly, running his fingers through his hair. Eames likes it best at night, when it isn’t so perfectly coiffed.

“What were you doing down there? What did you think you were going to find?”

Eames shrugs, looking away. He’s fine with taking the blame, mostly fine with that, anyway. But this is the part of the conversation he was truly hoping to avoid.

“Eames,” Arthur presses in a voice that says, _Don’t make me make it an order_.

Eames sighs, letting Arthur take him by the chin, their eyes meeting.

“What were you doing?” Arthur asks again, softer this time.

Eames tries to smile. “Just looking, darling.”

“Looking for what?”

“For you.” he admits.

Arthur looks, if possible, even _more_ lost.

“You always know where to find me. You always know where I am.”

Eames grimaces. “I know where you are but I don’t know... what you are.” What makes you tick. What turns you on.

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “I’m yours. I’m your dom.”

“I know that, Arthur, I just meant - I wanted --”

“Oh,” Arthur breathes, finally filling in the blanks.

He takes a steadying breath and then says grimly, “I don’t understand why you thought you needed to follow me into a dream to know that all I want, the only thing, is you.”

“Yes, but - _how_ do you want me? What’s it going to take? I’m ready, do you hear me? I’ve made my choice! And I’ve tried to figure it out on my own - I’ve tried to be what you need, but it’s never enough! What do I have to do?” He’s pleading, voice ragged with it, but he doesn’t care.

He just wants to know.

“Eames. Eames,” Arthur forces out in a desperate rush, pulling Eames roughly on top of him, until he’s straddling Arthur’s thighs. “You _know_ this one, come on. I told you, I told you _months_ ago.”

Eames shakes his head, distracted by the view he now has of Arthur, by how easy it is to cup Arthur’s face in his hands.

“I don’t remember,” he says quietly. Or maybe he just didn’t understand.

Arthur closes his eyes, and it takes a minute for Eames to determine Arthur is angry with himself, not with Eames.

“I should have told you every day, I’m sorry,” he whispers, surging up to kiss Eames, his hands splayed around Eames’ waist to keep him where he is.

When Arthur finally releases Eames’ mouth, Eames is amazed he can still think clearly enough to actually understand Arthur when he says,

“Eames, you’re mine. You’re already everything I want, everything I could ever want, _just as you are_. All I want from you is you.”

There’s nothing for Eames to say to this, nothing he shouldn’t have already known, so he settles for attacking Arthur with his hands, his mouth, and they go crashing back down against the pillows, mouths still glued together. They writhe together, desperate, uncontrolled movements, but then the earth shifts again, and Arthur is above him, and he’s all Eames can see.

Arthur proceeds to pull Eames apart, piece by piece, until Eames can’t remember who he is, until he can’t remember anything but Arthur’s name, which he repeats, over and over, until he’s so lost to pleasure that he forgets even that.

When every thought is gone from Eames, when he feels as if he’s floating high above himself, Arthur starts in on him again, piecing Eames back together, making Eames into something whole, something new.

They lie together, after, Eames still panting against Arthur’s neck. His head is resting over Arthur’s heart again, and he loves how hard and fast it’s beating, even though Arthur’s breathing is deceptively even.

“Next time I’m going to be the one taking you apart, figuring out how you work,” Eames vows, when he can finally speak.

Arthur hums his agreement, pausing to kiss Eames’ forehead before promising, “You can do anything you want.”

Eames knows that this is true, now. He finally understands.

He can do whatever he wants, have anything he wants, because Arthur will find a way to give it to him. But it doesn’t matter.

All he wants is Arthur.

Epilogue;

When he wakes up the next morning, Arthur is gone, but Eames knows where to find him.

He’s in the kitchen, tea already made, an omelet sizzling in the frying pan.

Eames doesn’t feel shy, or uncertain. Instead, he strides over to Arthur, and takes Arthur’s kiss as his due.

When Arthur lets him go, he turns off the element, and takes the pan off the stove.

“Go sit down,” Arthur directs him softly, but Eames feels a frisson of anticipation, knowing it’s an order, one he’s happy to obey.

He takes his usual spot at the kitchen table, and waits for Arthur to come to him.

When he does, he feels Arthur before he sees him, Arthur’s long, elegant fingers brushing against Eames’ neck.

“Last chance, Eames,” Arthur warns, but Eames doesn’t even hesitate.

Instead, he cranes backward, bearing his throat for Arthur, and then sits perfectly, utterly still while Arthur fastens the collar around him.

By the time Arthur finishes tightening the clasp, Eames’ heart is racing so fast he’s afraid it’s going to burst out of his chest, but then Arthur straightens the collar a little, admiring his handiwork, and after he’s satisfied, he kisses the top of Eames’ head, and murmurs,

“Good boy.”

Just like that, that last of Eames’ resistance dissolves, and this time he’s sure. He knows beyond any shadow of a doubt exactly where, and to whom, he belongs.


End file.
